


Eyes like Silver

by Peppermintemperament



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gay, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Werewolf Jesse McCree
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-09-01 16:17:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 47,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8630746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peppermintemperament/pseuds/Peppermintemperament
Summary: Recently recruited Hanzo Shimada is not a social man by any means, but that doesn't stop him from accidentally befriending one of the most dangerous agents on Overwatch's force.





	1. An Introduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, this is a note to new readers. Hello! I promise you the chapters get longer.

Chapter 1 - An Introduction

Hanzo Shimada. World class assassin. Master of stealth.

He was known by many titles like this, but was somehow still surprised when he rounded a corner in the dirt-cheap motel at which he was currently holed up and a thin, lithe figure moved to block his path. He stifled a gasp as a sharp prick of fear shot through him and immediately drew his bow, pulled an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it, all in one fluid motion. The figure in front of him, just barely illuminated in grey light by the grimy bulb overhead, held its hands up in the universal motion for "hang on there, buddy". A tinny female voice emanated from it, carrying a jolly undertone that made him want to hit something. 

"Woah, hold on, love! I'm not here to hunt you down or anything. Would you mind dropping the bow?"

Hanzo relaxed his grip and lowered his bow a small bit, squinting at the figure as she stepped into the light. A young, mousey girl with a round face and a sleek pixie cut stood before him, smiling (albeit nervously) and mostly failing to maintain eye contact. A aura of familiarity floated about her, and he struggled to grasp where he had seen her before. It was the kind of familiarity one would feel about someone they'd never met in person, but had nevertheless seen. 

Suddenly, he remembered. He had seen her everywhere. She was on posters, in videos, nearly every surface that could be printed on.

This was famous Overwatch spokesperson and icon, hero extraordinaire, Tracer. What she could be doing in a 24-hour dingy motel was beyond him. She wasn't in her official gear, just wearing an inconspicuous bomber jacket and denim jeans. He glanced her over quickly just to make sure there was nothing on her that could be considered a weapon, somewhat relieved to see there wasn't. 

"No, really. I wasn't sent here to hurt you. I just need you to trust me."

Hanzo lowered his voice, suddenly aware of the motel's rooms' thin doors around him. "Why were you sent, then?" It was barely a whisper.

Tracer lowered her voice as well, leaning as close to him as she could without provoking him to draw his bow again. She glanced around suspiciously, then murmured:

"It's not safe to talk here. Follow me."

The assassin nodded briskly and followed close behind her, weaving throughout the confusing hallways until they passed through the unattended lobby and out into the fresh night air. They continued walking through the crime-ridden city, attempting to appear as nonchalant as possible but also trying to keep to the shadows, until Tracer suddenly pulled Hanzo into a dark side alley where they would not be seen. She began speaking at once. 

"I'm here on official Overwatch business. You know the name?"

He nodded. "I do believe they... disbanded... years ago."

"They did, but new threats have forced it back into existence. We're keeping it secret now," she explained in a hushed tone. "Anyways, Overwatch has become interested in your abilities as a fighter, and we think you'd be a valuable asset to our cause." 

Taking a while to respond, he glowered at her. "I don't think that would be the best course of action for me. I have enough to worry about already."

Tracer sighed and let her gaze drop to the floor. "We thought you might say that. So," she continued, "we've decided to award you compensation. If you join Overwatch, we'll keep your history in the Shimada family and your location safe from your enemies and state officials. If you decline, well, there's no guarantee that they won't all come for you at once." She pushed a contact card into his hand. "Sleep on it."

Hanzo drew his bow quickly and Tracer held her hands up, backing away. She shot him one of her characteristic cheerful smiles. "Don't shoot the messenger," she tittered, zipping away before his arrow even left the bow.

What choice did he have?


	2. The Cafeteria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo catches a glimpse of McCree while on a tour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter!! This one is a tad bit longer. Time to meet McCree! Stay tuned :>

The contact card only had a number printed on it. Hanzo hesitantly pulled out his cell phone and dialed in the number, leaning against the chipped brick wall at the back of the motel. Immediately, he heard a click on the other side and a female robotic voice he didn’t recognize started talking. 

“Hello, Mr. Shimada. Please walk to the front of the motel.”

Impressive, he thought. He’d only bought his ancient flip phone as a throwaway two days ago, and he’d not registered it in his name. Still holding the phone to his ear, he pushed off the wall silently and rounded the corner to the entrance.

The voice on the other line spoke up again. “Mr. Shimada, please get in the car.”

A black, low to the ground, heavily tinted hovercar pulled out of a parking space and crawled alongside him as he walked down the sidewalk, engine purring menacingly. The passenger door cracked open and cool air seeped from it. Hanzo paused, but the door pushed open another inch insistently, so he pulled it open all the way and slipped inside. The interior was just as dark as the night sky outside. He glanced at the driver, then turned fully to look, for he had been caught off guard. There was no driver, and the steering wheel and gas pedals had been replaced by empty space. Hanzo turned as he heard the doors lock and the car lurch forward. Soon, it had pulled out of the parking lot and into the highway. As soon as the car merged, the voice he had heard on the phone seeped out of the speakers.

“Hello, Mr. Shimada. My name is Athena. We are so glad you’ve decided to join us at Overwatch. Now, until we have observed you at our base, and due to concerns about security breaches, we cannot allow you to know where we are located. Please, stay in your seat. We will arrive shortly.”

Hanzo nearly jumped when his chair swiveled to a somewhat reclined position, and he gripped the armrests, grimacing. Right by his head, a hissing sound emanated from a vent, and his eyes became half-lidded and unfocused. He realized what Athena had done the moment he fell unconscious. 

...

The first thing that dragged Hanzo back into consciousness was the cold. He was not aware of very much, but he did know he was very, very cold. He tried to roll to his side, groaning, but nearly fell off the metal table on which he was laid. Now fully awake, he tried to comprehend his surroundings, looking very much like a scared deer in the headlights. His clothes were gone, replaced by a paper gown.  
A figure in his peripheral vision stood up, scaring him half to death. She was blonde, with her hair tied up in a messy bun. Her eyes were a striking electric blue, Hanzo noticed, following their gaze down to the clipboard she was holding. She tapped a pen against it, reading, then looked up at him from across the room. “Hanzo Shimada?” she asked. He nodded, blinking the sleep away from his eyes.

“Why am I here?”

She scanned the clipboard again while talking. “All new recruits are required to have a physical done.”

Hanzo glanced down at her nametag. It read “Dr. Ziegler” in small, formal print. That was a name he knew.

“You are…” He struggled for the words. “Angela Ziegler? A founding member?”

She scoffed. “Let’s stick to the subject. What medications are you taking?”

...

The exam went by with many questions and many pokes and prods. Angela sent him on his way, allowing him to change into his clothes before pushing him out the door. Waiting, leaned against the shiny metal wall opposite him, Tracer (or rather, Lena Oxton) looked up and shot him a charming smile. Hanzo repressed the urge to RYU GA WAGA TEKI WO KURAU her right then and there. “What,” he seethed, “are you doing here?”

Unfazed, Lena pushed off the wall with vigor and simpered. “I’m assigned to ya, love. I’m only here to show you around. Now, your room is 34B, which is quite a ways from here. Follow me!” 

Her voice was much too cheery for him, and he blanched at the thought of having to spend the next hour with her. 

They began walking down the long, amply lit hallway, and around 5 minutes later turned a corner. Lena opened a heavy metal door, urging him through. As Hanzo stepped through the doorway, the sound of lots of chatter filled the room. It appeared to be a cafeteria, with folding hexagonal tables and the clatter of trays and silverware overpowering the voices of around one hundred people. 

“This is our Cafe!” Lena exclaimed. “Meals are free here, most of these people didn’t even bring money with them in the first place. Besides, Overwatch heroes aren’t paid. All your amenities are taken care of.” She led Hanzo across the room, weaving between the tables and nearly colliding with people several times. As they made the journey across the lunchroom, a figure caught Hanzo’s eye. It wasn’t as if he found the man particularly attractive, or that the man was trying to gather attention. In fact, it was the opposite situation that drew his eye. 

In the bustling cafeteria, the only table that wasn’t surrounded by people trying to socialize was the one at which the man was seated. He seemed to be completely ignored. His hat, skewed on his head so that it covered his eyes, resembled that of a cowboy’s in an old western. He was holding a drink (most likely alcoholic) and was hunched over it, scruffy brown hair hanging over his face and obscuring his features. The man perked up slightly as if he had sensed something, hat tilting up just far enough to reveal his murky brown eyes, which met Hanzo’s. The man did not smile.

Hanzo turned away quickly, hurrying out of the cafeteria with Lena.


	3. Teeth

Lena had left Hanzo in his living quarters after explaining how to use the hologram consoles (despite him already knowing how) and giving him a simple black-and-white map of the publically accessible areas of the facility. After she closed the door, he sat down on the squeaky bed, exhausted and dazed all at once. So much had happened in the past few hours; it was such a change from his life of running from assassins and mercenaries sent by the Shimada clan. He was somewhat at rest now, done being a nomad for an indeterminate amount of time, though he assumed he’d be here for months. He stared at the wall for what seemed like hours, and then stood, surveying his room. It was the same grey as the hallways were, with the same dreary lightbulbs and the same featureless walls. There were no windows. With a start, he realized that there had been no windows in the entire facility (that he’d seen), which led him to believe that the facility administration really, really didn’t want the facility’s occupants to know where they were. Hanzo understood the secrecy, however. If the outside world knew Overwatch was alive and carrying out missions, they’d be ripped apart.

Hanzo decided it would be best for him to get some rest, as he didn’t know when he’d be called for a mission. He laid back on the bed, not bothering to crawl under the rough covers, and stared at the ceiling until his exhaustion took over.

....

Hanzo was awoken by a piercing buzzing sound. He blinked, squinting tiredly, and sat up with a groan. The console, set into the wall opposite him, was online and blaring an alarm. He swung himself out of the bed and shuffled to see what was wrong. The hologram glowed a bright, pulsing red. As soon as he came near it, the alarm shut off and Athena’s voice came through the speaker. 

“Hello, Mr. Shimada. Your first mission begins in one hour at Loading Bay 2. Please report by 5:00 AM-”

The time flashed on the screen. 4:01 AM.

“-please refer to your map to find Loading Bay 2. You are expected to be on time.”

Athena’s last sentence sounded a bit ominous to Hanzo, but nevertheless the thought of blowing off the mission crossed his mind. He decided against it, and began to prepare himself for the mission.

...

After dressing, he spent a good five minutes staring at the map and memorizing the path from his wing of the facility to the loading bay. It was no trouble to find it, but the process the security guards at the door to the loading bay was such a hassle that it had reminded him of airport security. He wasn’t sure why the guards were necessary, given that he had to take his weapons with him. When he finally did get through them, he was amazed at the vastness of the hangar before him. There were countless aircraft and other vehicles, and to add to the illusion of titanic space, it wasn’t very well lit, causing the far side to be cloaked in shadows. He noticed, standing in a semicircle by one of the smaller crafts, a group of people. One of them waved him over, looking quite irritated. As he approached, the man that had waved him over began to explain the procedures of the mission to the group. Apparently, they’d intercepted communication between the members of the terrorist group Talon, which was planning to loot one of Overwatch’s old bases, and access their database through the holovids left there. Why Overwatch didn’t just destroy the base earlier, Hanzo didn’t know.

He glanced around at the group. No Lena, thank god, he thought. He turned a bit further and almost jumped. Standing right beside him, a scowl on his face and a cigar in his mouth, was the mysterious man from the lunchroom. The man seemed to notice Hanzo’s stare without actually seeing it, his posture growing a little more upright but the expression on his face remaining the same. His eyes twitched the slightest bit, meeting Hanzo’s. Hanzo immediately looked down at the ground, pretending as if he had never noticed the man in the first place. When he felt the man’s gaze shift off of him, he glanced up again. The man took a long drag on his cigar, then held it away from his mouth and blew the smoke upwards. 

Hanzo swore he caught a glimpse of jagged, pointed fangs.


	4. First Mission

Hanzo continued to discreetly stare at the man as the group boarded the aircraft, almost tripping on the metal steps that lead up to the hatch. Something about him just drew Hanzo’s gaze. It didn’t help that, once inside, they were seated directly across from each other. Trying to distract himself, Hanzo examined the interior of the craft. The walls were the same shiny grey as the exterior, and the red bulb overhead, coupled with the reflective walls, bathed everything in an urgent vermillion. The cabin was closed off from the cockpit, and a faint buzzing sounded from somewhere above him.

The craft shook agitatedly as it lifted off the ground, wobbling, similarly to how magnets of the same poles wobbled when forced together. It threatened to slip and crash to one side, before regaining control and ascending slowly into the air. Hanzo felt uneasy; he was not afraid of heights but felt unsafe in the confined space. 

It shot forward with much whining protest from the engine, and Hanzo’s fear doubled. He gripped the edge of the seat cushion nervously. His fear was short lived, however, as a distraction came in the form of official-looking personnel entering the cabin and explaining the individual parts of the mission in detail. She began grouping off people, pointing to a few at a time and telling them their collective goal. Most of the recruits had already been grouped off by the time she pointed to Hanzo, saying his name in a disinterested, deliberate voice. 

“Hanzo.”

She turned on her heels slightly, gesturing at someone else, and Hanzo followed her gaze.

“Symmetra.”

The woman apparently called Symmetra smiled politely, her posture near perfect. She noticed Hanzo scanning her and managed a small wave. Surprised by her friendliness after the distant hostility of Lena and the brashness of Athena, it was a welcome expression. 

He looked up just in time to see the woman point at the final member of their team.

“McCree.”

The enigmatic man tipped his hat slightly in recognition as the woman began to explain the duties of the team. Hanzo could barely pay attention. By what power had he been grouped with the man? How was he ever going to stay focused when such an abstruse being was working alongside him?

He was snapped out of his thoughts as his name was mentioned. 

“Hanzo and McCree, you two will be positioned at the top of Tower B. If you see any of the Talon operatives, take them down. Don’t shoot if any of our agents are within three feet. You hear that?” she asked the rest of the cabin. “If they run into the open, stay away from them. Hanzo and McCree” -she pointed again for the recruits that didn’t know the two- “will take care of it. Symmetra, you go with them up the tower, drop a teleporter, come back down and drop another.”

She pointed at the two again.

“You two will join the rest of us, using the teleporter, but only if I call you down. You all know how to work your communication devices, yes?” She addressed the group again.

Everyone nodded. The communication devices were literally just repurposed cell phones.

The craft jolted, slowing into a dead stop. Hanzo could feel it shakily descending, rocking on some invisible fulcrum as it strained to maintain its pace. Finally, he heard the dull knock of the metal connecting with the ground. Needing no hints, the group went completely silent as the hatch at the back of the craft hissed, releasing pressure and descending. People started to group up, and Hanzo somewhat reluctantly got up to join McCree and Symmetra. Symmetra welcomed him again with a warm smile. As they walked out of the craft, trying their best to be stealthy, she pointed up with a slender finger towards a thin, nondescript seven-story building. 

“I’ve been here before,” she explained in a barely audible whisper. “That’s Tower B. Follow me.”

She began to lead them through the shadows on silent feet towards the back of the building. Hanzo complied noiselessly. He couldn’t help but sneak a glance at the reticent stranger next to him, who appeared to have no trouble muting his every movement. It was like there wasn’t anyone there, even with Hanzo’s trained sense of hearing; he had been hunted down many times before and knew how to distinguish the sound of footsteps and clothing rustling from background noise. But McCree, he appeared to have mastered it.

They reached the back of the building and as quietly as they could, crawled through one of the broken windows. The stairs on the inside seemed relatively intact, even if the concrete was worn and chipped. The seven flights of stairs were nothing to them, as they were all fairly muscular and had done much more strenuous things than running up stairs. They reached the top within ten minutes. Symmetra, who had run ahead of Hanzo and McCree, already had the roof hatch unlocked when they got there. Hanzo nodded a thank you and pulled himself through the hole, McCree following. Symmetra popped up only to construct a teleporter, then hopped back into the building, on her way to join the combat. They were alone.

Crouched as low as possible, Hanzo studied the roof for hideaways. Almost in the middle but moved a few feet to the front of the building was a maze of rusting air conditioning components. There were large metal boxes with fans creaking lazily in the cold wind, moved no more by any quantity of electricity. He figured that was as good a hiding place as any and darted to a fan, stooping onto one knee while nocking his bow. Given that the rest of the roof was bare, it was only natural for McCree to follow in his footsteps. The gunslinger hunched over behind a large pipe, a dismal look of indifference crossing his face as he surveyed the dreary landscape. He pulled his revolver out and let it hang loosely from his hand and peered around the pipe at the ground below them.

They waited like that for hours, motionless, as if they were part of the building. Nothing moved in the courtyard below them, except for the grey, dead branches of the barren trees, swaying as the wind swept across them. Their eyes strained to see into Tower A, looming across from them, and the dark windows of the many squat concrete buildings surrounding it.

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out under them, and the men were animated again. Hanzo drew back his bow, his muscles tensing, and McCree cocked his gun with a menacing click. Again, nothing moved below them, until…

The sound of bullets hitting metal right next to Hanzo’s ear startled him badly and he prematurely released the arrow, sending it cavulting through the air and down to the courtyard, clattering on the stone. A slug exploded on the ground to his right, ripping a small, ragged hole into the roof. He ducked behind the fan again, morbid thoughts of what that could do to his flesh.

A frenzied yell reverberated through the metal maze and Hanzo turned to see what the source was. McCree was hugging his leg close to his body, a grimace pulled tight across his face, teeth bared, confirming the fact of their sharpness to Hanzo. He stared at Hanzo, anger and pain as clear in his eyes as the fact that he needed help. Hanzo made the split decision to cross the gap, scampering from his position behind the fan to McCree. Bullets rained down at his feet, but he was swift enough to throw off the attacker’s aim. 

The man’s presence overwhelmed him. Even with his legs pulled up to his chest in pain, he still appeared enormous. For a second, Hanzo feared him, and not the shooter that was trying to kill them both.  
He snapped out of it and untied the ochre scarf from his hair, gripping it tightly to keep it from blowing away. McCree, not noticing his teammate because of the agony, wasn’t receptive to his help. Hanzo attempted to pull the man’s hands away from the wound, but he recoiled, startled. Seeing that Hanzo was there to help, he very, very slowly stretched his wounded leg out, groaning in pain all the while.

Hanzo gulped, staring at the wound. His flesh had been nearly ripped away from the bone, muscles pulsating, crimson blood staining the remaining skin in several small trickles. He’d been hit by one of the bullets, still embedded in his leg. Hanzo, very carefully, reached into the crater of a wound and grasped the bullet with his fingertips. McCree screamed in pain, every micromovement slowly killing him. Hanzo decided it would be best to do it quickly, so he didn’t have to suffer. He extracted the bullet quickly and threw it to the side, ignoring the howls from the cowboy, and wrapped his leg in the scarf, tying it into a makeshift tourniquet. 

Speaking in a tortured whisper, the man uttered the first words Hanzo had ever heard from him.  
“Thank you.”


	5. My Leg! -Fred

McCree had been taken through the teleporter to ground level and into the airship, passed out, his body unable to handle the blood loss. Hanzo didn’t see him in the cabin, assuming he had been taken to some sort of on-board infirmary. He pushed the worry about the wounded man from his mind, letting the weariness of the day take over, and he too passed out, leaning against the uncomfortable seat in a fitful slumber.  
The jolt of the landing ship woke him, and he tiredly blinked the sleep from his eyes. He stood with a grunt, mindlessly shuffling after the people filing out the hatch. Still in a dazed state, he walked through the hangar doors and into the dull grey corridor, following it until it lead him to the busy, buzzing cafe. As much as Hanzo didn’t want to enter, he needed something to wake him up, and caffeine would fit the bill. He wasn’t sure how many people he sleepily bumped into trying to make his way to the coffee machine, his mind clouded and warm, and his hands went through the process of making the coffee almost autonomously. He brought it back to an empty booth and brought it to his lips, welcoming the slight burning sensation. He sat in the same position for hours, reminiscent of his post on the building only an hour earlier, eyes half lidded and arm raising only to sip from the coffee that had long since grown cold. Fewer people came into the cafe now. Before he knew it, he was completely alone in the vast room, the voices of diners still ringing in his head, and he decided it was time to leave. 

The coffee had not woken him up, and he did not remember the walk to his room.

…

When Hanzo awoke, he was stiff in the joints and felt as though he’d done hundreds more missions in his sleep. He stretched, hearing his joints crack abhorrently, his fingertips brushing the cold ceiling. Thoughts of the mission the day before filled his mind, and he realized he’d not seen the man since he’d had a mangled hole ripped open in his leg by a bullet. Pushed by a morbid curiosity, he decided he’d try and find the infirmary after grabbing some breakfast, since he had woken up starving. It was a short walk from 34B to the cafeteria, and as he pushed open the door, he was surprised to see none other than McCree sitting the same as he had been when Hanzo had rushed through with Lena, at the only table not surrounded by people, hat tilted down over his eyes.

Hanzo pushed his way through the milling crowd and even before he reached the table, he could see McCree tense in surprise. He pulled out a chair next to the man and took a seat.

“Is your leg healed already?”

McCree, voice rough and gravelly, answered reservedly. 

“Dr. Ziegler works miracles.”

But Hanzo could see that it obviously wasn’t all healed yet, given the massive, bloodstained bandage wrapped tightly around his calf.

McCree looked incredibly uncomfortable, Hanzo recognizing the look as bewilderment, and he wondered if maybe the cowboy didn’t want him there; but then he spoke.

“Hey, about th’other day -the mission- thank ye.” He said it in a quiet, drained voice, as if even just the act of interaction made him weary. 

Hanzo nodded. “It is no trouble.”

Oddly, this drew the slightest snigger from McCree. “I- I have t’ go,” he said tiredly, and attempted to stand, but grunted in pain at the effort. Hanzo stood to help him, feeling confused, but almost immediately Dr. Ziegler was at his side, guiding him to the door but with an obvious aversion to touching him. Hanzo assumed as he watched them leave that she was only there to help him walk, bound by her duty as the only doctor.

As he left the cafe for his room, he wondered what it was about that man that left everyone so repulsed.


	6. Ziegler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one today, my children :> arms are killing me
> 
> time for some forceful mchanzo interaction (:

After an uneventful night of sleep, Hanzo awoke to a blinking red message flashing on his holovid. He sleepily slipped out from under the rough covers and shuffled to it, selecting the message. It opened, and he read the following:

Hanzo,  
I have something to discuss with you. Please meet me in my office.  
Dr. Ziegler

A sigh of tedium escaped his lips as he dressed slowly, tying his hair back in front of his tiny, dirt-speckled bathroom mirror, scrubbing the tiredness out of his face. He ambled out of the small room and into the hallway in the direction of the doctor’s office. The unremarkable trip seemed to take forever, and he hummed a traditional tune to pass the time. How he missed his home. His heart ached for it, even though it had been the setting of the worst mistake of his life.

Hanzo forced the thought out of his mind as he came to Dr. Ziegler’s door. He pushed it open, striding into the dark, depressing room. Dr. Ziegler was sitting at her desk, looking quite frustrated with whatever paperwork she was handling.

“Dr. Ziegler?”

She looked up, the same dismal expression on her face.

“Oh, hello, Hanzo. Please take a seat.” She scribbled another sentence onto a patient release form, then continued speaking, her voice monotone.

“I’m sure you’re aware of Jesse McCree’s situation, yes?”

He nodded. “I am aware. I was there when he was shot.”

Ziegler rubbed her temples despondently. “Well, he’s not been taking care of the wound properly and it turned into an infection. A serious one, too. And I know he’s not going to take care of it now, either.”

Hanzo slowly nodded, confused. “Why am I here?”

“I need you to take care of him. I’m going to be frank with you, Hanzo, he won’t listen to me for shit.” She gave a little sigh. “I have other patients to tend to, and I can’t be with him all the time. I know no one else is going to do it either.” 

Hanzo recalled how, in the cafeteria, McCree had been alone. No one had spoken to him on the ship, not even friendly Symmetra. He wondered why.

Dr. Ziegler continued. “I want you to tend to him until he’s healed. Just make sure he’s doing what he needs to do. I gave him a bottle of topical cream. Make sure he’s applying it every morning and night. He needs to give himself shots too, every day. He has those too, but he’s deathly afraid of needles, so you’ll probably have to do that for him. And make sure he stays in his wheelchair. It won’t heal if he walks on that leg.   
Can you do that for me?”

Hanzo, struggling to retain all the information, nodded. “I- I can try.”

“Great,” she said, a weight seemingly lifted off her shoulders. “Well, you better get down to his room. I told him not to leave it until I sent somebody down to help him.”


	7. Dangerous

Dr. Ziegler left him with a room number and a daunting task. How was he going to take care of McCree if they were so nervous around each other? He didn’t think McCree wanted him around, given the way he’d left the table the day before.

Oh well, he’d have to try anyway. Dr. Ziegler was counting on him, and he was not one to back down.

Hanzo glanced at the slip of paper she’d given him. The room number, 56F, was scrawled at the top, and underneath it, her number. She had written it in case he had any trouble with Jesse and needed to contact her. The room was four floors above his, at the very top of the facility, he’d been told. Four flights of stairs separated him from the room, and he was grateful for both the space in between him and his destination and the complete lack of elevators to speed the process. 

Eventually, he reached Floor F, and ambled through the halls until he found the room. The door was unremarkable, the same grey as every other, but for some reason his heart skipped a beat at the sight of it and a pit grew in his stomach. He knew he had no reason to be afraid of the man, but still, a primal fear struggled to take ahold of him. 

Hanzo knocked lightly, but heard no answer from inside, so he grabbed the doorknob and turned it slowly. It wasn’t locked, and swung inward, almost pulling Hanzo in with it as he still had a tight grip on the knob. McCree, who was reading a novel on his bed, glasses perched high on his nose, turned his head towards Hanzo and peered at him over the rims of the glasses. 

“What are you doing here?” he said in a consternated voice.

Hanzo turned his gaze to the floor. “Dr. Ziegler sent me, to-” he paused “-to look after you.”

His face went white and he looked down at his book, staring for a few seconds before closing it. “I haven’t had breakfast this morning.”

McCree stood, a pained look on his face, and limped to the door. He stumbled, catching himself on the doorframe just in time to prevent himself from crumpling onto the floor. Hanzo spotted the black wheelchair that’d been shoved to the corner of his room. He grabbed the handle and pushed it to McCree. “Dr. Ziegler wanted you to use this,” he said quietly.

McCree looked like he was going to resist, seemingly repulsed by the wheelchair and Hanzo’s help in general, but he sighed irritatedly and sank into the chair. He pushed open the door and rolled himself into the hallway, Hanzo following hesitantly. It was fine like that for a few minutes, until they reached the stairs. There was no way the wounded man could roll himself without four flights of stairs without ending up in the hospital, but he looked like he was going to try, because he was inching himself forward and gripping the handrail. Hanzo rushed forward and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair. “I can take you down,” he stated.

Hanzo held both the handles and the handrail, and let the wheels drop from one step to the next. The sudden lurch made McCree grunt in pain, as his leg was shaken from the impact, but he sucked it up and remained mostly silent the rest of the way down. It took them nearly half an hour to reach floor B, where the cafeteria and most of the other amenities were located. McCree began to roll himself again, with Hanzo trailing behind. He held the door to the cafe open for McCree, who took a deep breath before entering. Hanzo thought he saw a hint of desolation cross the man’s face. 

The cafeteria was crowded as always, with McCree’s table standing in solitude in a corner, waiting for them. 

They both went through the line, McCree pointing at things and Hanzo putting them on his plate, since he was too short in the wheelchair to grab them himself. Several times, Hanzo asked him if he really wanted that much bacon, and why he wanted a pound of scrambled eggs, and if he could really eat that many sausage patties. He was astonished by the amount of food this man took, and even more astonished that he could eat it all, looking down at his own piece of toast, apple, and glass of orange juice with shame. McCree had eaten half of the mound of food on his plate in a mere five minutes, and was still putting it away without a sign of slowing.

“Hungry?” Hanzo chuckled, but was met with a look of reproach. He silenced himself and began eating his own breakfast. They’d both finished within ten more minutes, and sat back, watching the people mill about. It wasn’t long before Hanzo noticed a familiar face in the crowd staring back at him. Lena was standing on the far side of the cafeteria, arms crossed, leaned against the wall. She looked troubled. He shrugged it off and stood up, turning to McCree. “You ready to go back?” he asked, and the man nodded and started rolling towards the door. McCree was faster, since the crowd split to yield an unobstructed path to him, but converged again once he’d passed through, leaving Hanzo to struggle through. 

He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder, turning him around. It was Lena. She pulled him away from the group of people and began speaking in hushed tones. “You know who that is, right?” she whispered.  
He nodded slowly. “McCree.”

Lena’s eyes darted from side to side, and then she murmured, “But you know WHO he is, right?”

Hanzo looked at her in confusion. “I’m not sure I follow.”

It took her a while to reply. “I guess it’s not my place to say. But, Hanzo, be careful. He’s dangerous.” With that, she pushed him back to the door, shooting him a meaningful look, and he hurried to catch up to the cowboy.

He stared at McCree, Lena’s words echoing in his head. He’s dangerous. He dismissed her words, thinking, well we’re all dangerous. It’s why we’re here, in Overwatch.

He found him at the bottom of the flight of stairs, gazing up at them with uncertainty. Hanzo understood the look. It would be difficult to lug the wheelchair and the man up four flights. Unsure of what to do, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed in Dr. Ziegler’s number. It rang a few times, and then he heard the click of the phone being picked up. “What do you need, Hanzo?” the tired voice answered. 

He stood, a hand on his hip, staring up at the countless steps. “I don’t think I’ll be able to bring McCree up the stairs every day. It’s four flights.”

At this, McCree heaved himself out of the wheelchair and began inching his way up, hunched over, grunting in what Hanzo assumed to be pain. “He’s trying to climb them.” He hurried over and put his arm under the cowboy’s arms, supporting him as they went back down the stairs, and McCree slipped back into his chair. 

Ziegler sighed. “I’ll check for vacancies on Floor B.” Hanzo heard muffled speak on the other line, and then the doctor turned back to the phone. “I don’t know what to tell you, Hanzo. All the rooms are taken.”  
He blanched at the thought of climbing those four flights of stairs every day. “Maybe there’s a vacancy on the floor above me. That’d be only one flight from the-” 

She interrupted him. “What’s your room number?”

“34B.”

“That’s perfect! You’re on the same level as the cafeteria. Just have him stay in your room with you.”

“But where will he sleep?” he inquired.

“I don’t know, you work it out. Just run up to his room and grab his medication. Take good care of him.” 

The phone clicked and he knew she’d hung up.


	8. Needles Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the irregular upload schedule, haha.   
> ((this is what happens when you search "overwatch memes" instead of getting things done))

McCree gave Hanzo his room key and he hurried up the stairs to Floor F, finding the room quickly and unlocking it. He stepped in and turned in a circle, examining the room for the case of syringes and topical cream. It was neatly organized, no clothes on the floor, the bed neatly made. There were stacks upon stacks of worn, old books with frayed edges and random pages sticking out slightly, as if they’d been read over and over. The rustic orange blankets and book covers warmed the room, colors dully reflecting off of the metal walls.

The medicine case was sitting, unopened, on the floor in the corner where the wheelchair had been. He assumed McCree had put them both there to forget about after his visit with Dr. Ziegler. 

The case in his hand, Hanzo rushed down the stairs to McCree, who was still waiting at the bottom for him. He seemed disgruntled by the appearance of the case in Hanzo’s hand, leaning away from it as he rolled behind him.

Hanzo reached his room, 34B, unlocking and opening the door in one swift movement. He held it open for McCree to roll through, and entered after him, closing the door. “Well, this is-" he avoided using the word "home" "-where I live now,” he announced, all the disappointing smallness of it summarized in one broad gesture.

McCree gave a slight nod in acknowledgement and hoisted himself out of the chair, lowering himself to the ground to sit against the wall. He kicked the chair away with his good leg. “Mind passing that case over?” He gestured at the small box in Hanzo’s hand, and Hanzo stepped towards him, setting it down. Remembering Ziegler’s words to make sure the man did what he was supposed to, he crossed his legs, stroking his beard as he watched.

McCree coiled the stained bandage slowly, peeling it off his leg in careful precision. The last layer came off, and he set it to the side, opening the case and taking out the tube of cream. He squeezed a bit of the cream onto his finger, gingerly rubbing it onto the sutured, knotty wound. The swollen skin around it was discolored and greenish, and Hanzo winced at the sight of it. It must really pain him, he thought. He’s been trying to walk on it.

McCree began to close the case and bandage his wound again, but Hanzo stopped him, giving him a look of reproach. “Are you not supposed to inject medicine as well?”

McCree, caught, grumbled, and Hanzo thought for a second that the man wanted to hurt him. He was still terrifying, broad-shouldered and tall. But, as he pushed the case toward Hanzo, his frightening demeanor seemed to lessen. He paled as Hanzo pulled out the pre-filled syringe, removing the cap and tapping it to remove any air bubbles. As the needle pierced the chartreuse patch of skin by the thick threadlike sutures, Hanzo swore he could hear a tiny whimper from McCree, but of course, it could’ve just been his imagination. What wasn’t his imagination, however, was the string of obscene curses muttered under the man’s breath. He seemed to wither at the sight of the thin metal piercing his skin, knuckles white and irregular breathing.

Hanzo injected the medicine as quickly as he could and slid the needle out of his flesh, a bead of crimson blood welling from the tiny hole. McCree visibly relaxed, slumping against the wall, exhaling a breath he’d been holding. 

He disposed of the needle in the bin in the bathroom, turning around to see McCree bandaging the wound, then looked behind the busied man to the bed. Always one to put other’s needs before his own, he did the respectable thing and told the wounded man he could sleep on the bed, and he himself would sleep on the floor. McCree thanked him reservedly and pulled himself onto the bed, not bothering with the covers, just unbuttoning his white shirt and folding it, placing it on the ground next to the bed. Hanzo engrossed himself in his routine of meditation before sleep, mostly to avoid watching the man, out of respect for his privacy. However, while he was relaxed, in a modified lotus position, he couldn’t help but wonder why the man was so afraid of needles. He was burly, giant compared to the smaller Hanzo, and overall quite intimidating. It reminded him of an elephant-and-mouse situation.

He was lost in his thoughts for a good hour, and finally came to to hear McCree’s quiet, slowed breathing as he lay limp on the bed in a deep, still sleep.   
Hanzo, trying not to make any noise, sprawled on the floor, and did his best to fall asleep.


	9. Jesse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore warning.

The night was a sleepless, drawn-out one, for Hanzo at least. Though the bed hadn’t exactly been comfortable, he definitely would have preferred its rough, frayed blankets and lumpy mattress to the floor, whose hard metal surface caused him great discomfort. He woke many times, staring at the ceiling, his body stiff with fatigue. When the clock on the holovid blinked the arrival of morning with the red, pixelated 8:00 AM, he had already been up for an hour tidying the small space. He moved slowly, joints paining him from the night before, folding clean linens and placing them into drawers, wiping the bathroom counter with wet paper towels, and organizing all his various knick knacks. Hanzo was sifting through one of the drawers when he came across the little sparrow’s feather, his hand having brushed it, leaving it spinning lazily on the plain wood of the drawer. Funny that such a seemingly small, insignificant object could stir so much resentment in him, but it did. He picked it up and turned it in his hand, his face growing hard with the memories it forced from him. It took him back to that place, that time. He didn’t want to remember.

“Hanzo- brother! You don’t have to do this!” 

The shriek of metal on metal as their swords collided came back to him all too quickly.

Thrust. Parry. Thrust. Parry.

“It is my duty.” He said it quietly, angrily, more like he was trying to justify his actions to himself than to Genji. It hadn’t hit him what he had to do yet, as he’d blocked the thought from his mind in blind obedience of both the clan elders and his own rage. Stray strands of his silky black hair clung to his face with the sweat of combat as it whipped around his head, the lightning-fast movements of fencing throwing his whole body into motion.

Thrust. Parry. Thrust. Parry.

Genji’s fear shone through every aspect of his being; his countenance, his posture, his heavy breathing. He stared at Hanzo almost unbelievingly, using his sword only to block Hanzo’s onslaught. He refused to hurt his brother, knowing in his heart that the whole thing would blow over soon enough and they would act as one again-

Slash.

Genji sunk to the wood floor of the temple, lips parted in shock and eyes incredibly wide. Hanzo stood over him, breathing raggedly, the anger fading from his eyes with confusion and desperation replacing it. His voice was a mere whisper.

“Genji?”

His brother ever so slowly turned his head down to gaze in wonder at his severed torso. It was a clean cut; the straight, neat edges of his skin hung down into the cavern of his body, legs and hips attached only by his spine and bloodied threads of flesh, skewed at an awkward angle away from him. Muscles, shredded and pulsating, draped across his sliding, shifting entrails, and he fixated on them. Blood stained the wood around him crimson, and the splatters on the tapestry turned dull as they dried, forever remaining as a reminder of that lurid day. 

He turned his gaze hesitantly to Hanzo, only fear in his eyes. His mouth opened as if to speak, but all he could do was force a tortured croak out of his throat as his head slumped against the floor.  
Hanzo’s heart sunk in immense anguish as he stared, horrified, at the body of his brother. He backed away, soft whispers of denial seeping from his throat. He turned and ran, dropping the bloody sword. Never would he touch another.

Hanzo shoved the sparrow’s feather back into the drawer and shoved it closed with such force that the noise it made caused McCree to shoot up in confusion, squinty-eyed from the light of the lamp. “Wh- what’s going on…?” he started to ask, but saw the expression on Hanzo’s face and immediately stopped talking, comprehending the look of anger and grief even though he’d just woken up. He wriggled out of the covers and made the bed using the headboard as a crutch, shivering, as it was cold and he was only wearing boxers. 

Hanzo stood, shoving the chair away, his face stony. “Apply your cream. We are leaving in five minutes.”

…

McCree was ready in less than five minutes and was rolling himself out the door as Hanzo closed and locked. He straightened his back, trying to crack it to keep the stiffness from returning to his joints, but to no avail. Shuffling, pained, was the only way he could traverse the hallways alongside McCree’s wheelchair, and the cowboy kept glancing over his shoulder at the rigid man. “Y’ alright, Hanzo?” he questioned, but Hanzo waved his concern away as he opened the Cafe doors for him. They sat at the same table after going through the line, Hanzo merely there to assist McCree, not taking any food himself. The familiar mound of eggs on McCree’s plate went faster than usual, and he made Hanzo take him back up for seconds, his appetite not yet sated. How the man could eat so much and not gain any weight was beyond him. He tapped his fingernails against the plastic table, watching him eat. Something flashed in his mouth in between bites, and Hanzo, trying to be inconspicuous, peered closer at it. The one reflection turned into many, and with a start he realized he’d not been seeing things during the mission. McCree really did have pointed teeth. They were barely visible between the mouthfuls of egg, but they were definitely there. His ivory canines on both the top and bottom were much longer than the rest of his teeth, extending nearly a centimeter beyond the barbed cream-yellow incisors and premolars, and he wondered how he’d never noticed them outside of that one mission.

McCree swallowed his food, sneaking a secret glance at Hanzo that wasn’t so secret after all, because the Shimada saw it. McCree must have noticed the stare, reasoned Hanzo, because he turned away almost uncomfortably, pushing on the wheels of the wheelchair with his plate in his lap, making his way to the trashcan to throw the plate away. Hanzo followed, and they both left the cafe for his room, to waste time until lunch.

…

When they had settled back in the room, a heavy silence fell upon them. McCree filled it with the rustling of the pages of the book he’d had Hanzo bring down from his room, a bound-and-rebound hardcover that looked like it’d endured more readings than it had ever been intended to. The book sat in his lap, and he sat in his wheelchair, his overworked countenance almost matching that of the book’s. The little gray hairs that graced his sideburns and beard blended into the tawny brown ones, and he wondered whether they’d been caused by age or by stress. McCree pushed his reading glasses up on his nose and closed the book gently. He looked up at Hanzo, his cool gaze glancing at the drawer that held the accursed feather. 

“What happened this morning, Hanzo?”

It took a while for him to respond, stunned by the suddenness of the question. “It- it is nothing,” he muttered, voice shaky. 

“I’m serious, Hanzo. You did seem pretty distraught.”

Hanzo, not used to the empathy, replied almost harshly. “Drop it, McCree.”

The silence came back and McCree turned back to his book with a troubled look. After about a minute, he spoke up, albeit hesitantly.

“Call me Jesse.”


	10. Waking

Later that night, after Hanzo had helped McCree with his shots and they bedded down, Hanzo stared up at the ceiling of the small room, arms crossed gently over his bare chest, an uncomfortable posture on his part marking the unyielding floor. His stiff muscles ached from the previous night’s sleep, and as a result he couldn’t contain his small groan when he rolled onto his side to try and get some rest. The cold, grooved metal bit into his flesh and left little pink indents in his skin where the dipped seams ran across the panels of the floor.

McCree, who apparently hadn’t fallen asleep yet and had picked up on the groan, mumbled languidly. 

“Y’know you… you..” 

He trailed off drowsily, having drifted off into slumber, then came to again and finished his sentence. “You can sleep up here if y’like…”

About to protest, Hanzo sat up to tell him that it was alright, that he would sleep on the floor, but McCree was already gone, his chest rising and falling slowly and muscles completely relaxed against the concave bed’s dingy mattress. He heaved himself up with a grunt and thought, oh well, what harm could it do. He’d kill for a good night’s sleep after last night’s hell. 

The bed squeaked in protest as Hanzo put his knee on it to test its strength. He wasn’t sure the rusty old thing would hold the both of them, given its small size and Overwatch’s probably low budget. It creaked as he lowered himself onto it, but seemed to hold. Hanzo slipped under the covers and inched as far away as he possibly could from the cowboy, facing the wall. The prosthetic legs were slipped off and placed beside the bed, standing up next to McCree’s boots, the man’s metal arm leaning against the nightstand. 

Hanzo fell asleep to the rhythmic, lethargic breathing of the man lying next to him, his face peaceful in the grasp of repose.

…

Hanzo stood, confused, in the middle of a forest. How had he gotten there? Everything seemed so unnatural, much too dark for a - he looked up - a night of the full moon. Something was wrong here. He tried to take a step forward, but stumbled somewhat drunkenly. His arms shot out to either side to steady himself on the warped trees beside him, but he fell forward, just barely catching himself. That was weird. He could’ve sworn there were trees there. He turned on his back, and sure enough, there were the trees, shooting up towards the canopy and the silvery moons above. 

As soon as he grasped the trunk to pull himself up, Hanzo realized two things: The trees weren’t trees at all. They were limbs. And, he thought, why would there be two moons instead of one? He looked up again, and the two sterling eyes he’d mistaken for moons flashed frighteningly in his vision.

Hanzo shot bolt upright in the bed, breathing hard. He’d somehow moved to the center of the bed, and the still-asleep McCree’s intact arm was draped across Hanzo’s ribs right below his own arm. The amputated arm lay pressed against his upper back, and his hot breath tickled the back of his neck. The man winced at the contact; McCree was a furnace, and where their skin touched, little droplets of perspiration had formed. 

He kicked off the damp blanket and slipped out of McCree’s grasp. His face flushed with something he thought was embarrassment, and he shuffled to the bathroom. A shower would be best for him, Hanzo decided, stripping his damp clothes off and pulling back the curtain to turn the faucet. A stream of warm water spurted from the showerhead, and he stepped into it, splashing the water on his face and shoulders. Steaming trickles ran down his toned back, and he leaned against the tile wall with a tired sigh, staring at the wall in front of him until the mirrors had completely fogged up.

…

In the days following, Hanzo noticed a change in McCree. He seemed to grow more solitary, isolating himself from the Shimada. He became more bitter and irate, snapping at the slightest annoyances and then wandering off in his wheelchair to skulk. Twice he outright refused to treat his wound with the medicine in the syringes, and slept less and less. The pile of food on his plate grew as much as his appetite did and he refused to let Hanzo assist him as much as he used to.

This behavior baffled Hanzo and he began to wonder if this was why no one wanted to be around him. Perhaps he’d been foolish to so readily take on the task of caring for him.

He decided to see Dr. Ziegler about it, and climbed the several flights of stairs to her office. He’d left McCree in the room, where he’d rolled himself into a corner and thumbed through his books with a scowl.  
The door was open when he reached her office, so he stepped inside, announcing himself with a knock on the doorframe and a soft “Dr. Ziegler?” after clearing his throat.

She looked up from her ever-present paperwork, exasperation morphing into surprise. “Hello, Hanzo. Is there a problem with McCree?” There was a sort of secretive shine in her eyes, like she knew something he didn’t.

He gave a slight nod. “Yes. He has been unusually- irritated, as of late.”

Angela dipped her head in confirmation. “It happens. Hanzo, the day after tomorrow, you need to bring him to Floor G. The door to it is locked, but McCree has the key. He’ll tell you where to go from there. I know it’s going to be difficult with the wheelchair, but it is imperative you get him there.” She waved him off with a dismissive wave of the hand, and somewhat stunned at her unwillingness to help him with McCree’s recent change in demeanor, he started to turn towards the door. 

She interrupted his exit with a sudden interjection. “Oh, and Hanzo? Whatever you do, don’t go outside of this facility.”


	11. Eyes

As McCree became more detached and boorish, something in Hanzo grew apprehensive. His stomach twisted in fear whenever he neared the man, and he didn’t know why. Of course, it was foolish, being afraid of someone who wasn’t even trying to kill him, but every cold glance directed his way sent chills down his spine. 

Everyone else seemed to notice it too, and they strayed farther and farther away from the two. The hallways always seemed to be empty around them, and the gaps in the food lines grew greater. It was affecting not just McCree, but Hanzo as well, even the ever-friendly Lena avoiding eye contact. Dr. Ziegler was no exception, and when Hanzo saw her about, she never acknowledged them.

The avoidance manifested itself most in the cafeteria. As the pair sat to eat, people sitting at other tables tried inconspicuously to inch their chairs away from theirs. If McCree noticed it, he didn’t show it, burying himself in the tedious task of putting away the mountain of food on his plate. His portion sizes had steadily increased as well, and Hanzo marvelled at how much the man could consume in one sitting. They ate quickly, Hanzo finishing before the cowboy and leaning back in his chair to observe the lunchroom. A considerably sized gap now separated them from the crowd, and those that were closest appeared stiff, rigid.

He began to wonder if they knew something about the mysterious man that he didn’t.

…

That night, as they settled into bed, it was McCree’s turn to be nervous. He fiddled with the sheets as he sat on the edge of the mattress, detaching the metal prosthetic and laying it on the bedside table with care. He picked at his nails. He laid down and stared at the ceiling, biting his lip absentmindedly. 

Hanzo spotted all of this, and, setting down the book he’d been distractedly flipping through, turned to the man. “Are you alright, Jesse?” he inquired softly, crossing his legs on the comforter and leaning forward a bit.

McCree didn’t answer for a few minutes, his eyes fixed on the gray metal above him. Then, he spoke, his voice a mere gravelly whisper. 

“Do-” his voice cracked. “Do you think they’re right?”

Hanzo, confused, answered with a question. “What?”

Jesse turned to him with fire in his eyes. “You know who ‘ahm talking about. Do you think I don’t see them too? None of them can stand to be around me.”

The image of the crowd in the lunchroom inching away from them flashed in his eyes, and he understood, though he didn’t have the slightest clue of what to say. “I... uh-”

The cowboy just flipped on his side, the unfinished answer the only clue he’d needed that Hanzo was just like everyone else.

The Shimada had a hard time falling asleep that night, caught between leaving Jesse alone to rest or trying to talk to him. When he’d stayed silent and unmoving for an hour, Hanzo decided that he was already asleep and called it a night, but he couldn’t help regretting not relieving the man of his worries by giving a better reply.

…

The same dream came to him that night. The same desolate woods surrounded him, the same distant moon greeted him. The sound of wind howling echoed through the trees, even though he detected no breeze.   
He felt the sharp sting of the cold on his skin, and the landscape felt as if all the air had been sucked out of it. All was still. 

With a start, he recognized it as a dream, and knew he could escape it. He attempted to lift his hand to use the time-old method of pinching yourself, or counting your fingers, but suddenly, he discovered he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even twitch. Completely frozen, Hanzo tried with all his strength to even just fidget, but his efforts were all in vain.

Then, from the darkness of the trees, two shining, silver points. They grew larger and larger until he could see that they were the same eyes from before, staring right through him frigidly. The mere sight of them sent intense fear wracking through his body in fierce shivers. The sickly white light in those terrifying eyes drowned everything else in blackness, overpowering the moon above. They made him want to scream, to shriek. Time slowed, and it was an eternity staring into those dead eyes, those dead eyes staring into him, until he woke up. 

He wasn’t sure what had woken him up, but in the brief period between when he did and when he fell back asleep, he could’ve sworn he heard someone sobbing.

…

McCree was already up and dressed when Hanzo was roused by the squeaking of the metal door. Apparently, he’d decided to hop in his wheelchair and leave by himself. Hanzo swung out of bed, threw on some clothes, and hurried out after him. Tying his hair up as he walked alongside the somewhat irritated man, he began to make small talk, gingerly avoiding last night’s blowup. “Where are you going?”

McCree answered inattentively. “Breakfast.”

Nothing more was spoken as they made their way to the cafeteria, and nothing more was spoken when they’d finished eating and were heading back to the room. Neither said anything as they sat in silence, on the bed, each absorbed in their own tasks of reading and relaxing, when Dr. Ziegler’s words came back to Hanzo.

“You need to go to Floor G today, right? How am I going to get you up there?”

It was more a question for himself, but McCree answered anyways. “We’ll figure it out when we get there.” And then, softer, “What did Angela tell ya?” 

There it was again, that feeling that everyone else knew something he didn’t. “She just told me to bring you up there. Why?”

Then, from McCree, a sharp “Nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is the werewolfy one :)


	12. Scream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a longer chapter than most :>  
> time for the sufferingggg

As soon as Hanzo woke up he could tell that something was wrong. He’d fallen asleep in the middle of the day, worn out by the constant work that was caring for this man. McCree was out of bed and trying to occupy himself with whatever he could, rolling in the wheelchair around the room to clean, fold his clothes, wash his face in the bathroom sink, mess with the holovid, on and on. He seemed shaky, as if something was troubling him greatly. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that he had been getting worse leading up to the mystery of Floor G, Hanzo thought. He was actually quite eager (in a nervous, apprehensive way) to see what this whole thing was about, and it showed through in the almost constant way he fussed about McCree, helping him attach his prosthetic arm, adjusting his wheelchair, moving about in an almost enthusiastic manner. The wheelchair-bound man didn’t seem to want to be receptive to the unwarranted help, miffedly swatting his hands away, but didn’t fully object, so Hanzo continued on. He unlocked and opened the door, taking the handles of the wheelchair in his hands and wheeling it down the hall to the cafeteria, to a protesting McCree, who, for the first time Hanzo had seen, actively tried to avoid the crowds and cliques gathered there. As they headed towards the table, McCree made it known that he didn’t want to eat anything, so he just sat with his head propped up in his metal arm, looking disheveled and tense, until Hanzo came back from the line with a sandwich and black tea. He ate it quickly, all the while sneaking glances at the high-strung man beside him, who kept taking his hat off and running his hands through his tousled, messy hair, then replacing the hat and sighing. He watched the fingers of the good hand on the man tap the table rhythmically.

“McCree.”

Nothing, no reaction.

“McCree!” he strained, eyebrows pulling down into frustration. McCree turned his head slightly, just enough to indicate he was listening, but not enough to make eye contact. 

“What are you so worried about? I… would not like to be rude, but… you do usually eat a lot.”

This elicited a nervous chuckle. “I wouldn’t expect ya to understand it, Hanzo. I’d rather jus’ leave it at that.”

He wanted to pry further but suppressed the urge, deciding to leave the mysterious cowboy alone. 

…

As they passed the stairs, Hanzo took a few steps back to look at them. They were square in shape, somewhat spiraled in a tall rectangular space that seemed it went up for ages. The map he’d received at the beginning of his stay only went up to Floor G, so he assumed that was the highest level, which meant that somehow, he was going to have to get McCree up all those stairs. He, apparently, was thinking the same, because he rolled up beside Hanzo and gave a low whistle. “We may need to start tryin’ this now. It might take us a good while.”

He took one look at the sitting man and knew he wouldn’t be able to take him up in the wheelchair.

“Here,” he said, grabbing McCree’s hand and pulling him up, then threading his arm under the man’s own to support him. “I will support you; we can go faster like this.”

McCree obliged and leaned into him, almost knocking the unprepared Shimada over as they began to traverse the stairs, one walking and one limping.

…

McCree’s limp became worse the more flights they went up, but not from the condition of his leg. He held a hand to his stomach in pain, trying to quiet the shaking wracking his body. Hanzo, concerned, asked him if he was alright.

“Augh!” McCree groaned, breathing heavily, falling out of Hanzo’s grasp and against the wall.

“We need to keep going,” he whispered, barely mustering the strength to pull himself up.

…

They finally reached the door to Floor G, a rusted, thick piece of metal with a massive electronic deadbolt keeping it shut. McCree, still with a hand to his stomach, stumbled forward and pulled a small string that had been around his neck out of his shirt. On the end dangled a black double-sided key and a little laminated barcode. He held the barcode up to the scanner on the deadbolt, which beeped its approval, prompting him to insert the key, turn it, and open the door. 

Floor G was massive on the inside, and completely dark until the motion sensors took notice of the two and flipped on the lights. It appeared to be pretty empty as well, aside from some cargo containers scattered at the opposite wall, covered in cheap white sheets, appearing to have been undisturbed for quite some time. Hanzo figured that it whatever Floor G was, it hadn’t been needed since it’d been built, given the general emptiness and the layer of dust that covered the floor.

To their immediate right was a ladder that went straight through the ceiling quite a ways, stopping at a square hatch. McCree started leading Hanzo to it. “You need to get me up there, through the hatch.”

McCree sunk down at the base of the ladder to sit and wait as Hanzo climbed up it, through the ceiling and into the cavity surrounding the ladder. He reached the hatch, twisting the whining T-shaped handle until he heard a click, then, with slight difficulty, pushing the heavy hatch up and outward. It thumped on the damp dirt behind him, the night breeze brushing against Hanzo’s face, little raindrops pelting him. Crickets and birds chirped, signalling the end of the day. So the whole thing was underground? Interesting.

Hanzo heard McCree grunting in pain below him, and hurried back down the ladder to help him up. It was surprisingly easy to get him up there, since he could use his one good leg to boost himself up. McCree struggled onto the dirt, glancing back at Hanzo.

“Should I come up...?”

He answered sharply. “No.”

And with that, he shut the hatch.

…

Hanzo didn’t really know what to do after that, but figured he should wait for the man to finish whatever he was doing up there so that he could help him back down the stairs. He sat down against the wall, absentmindedly picking at his fingernails.

Suddenly from above, he heard a terrifying, agonized scream. It was the loudest scream he’d ever heard, and it sounded like someone was being murdered up there, the shrill voice echoing down into Floor G.  
McCree!

Knowing that McCree could very well be the only person in those woods, Hanzo realized he must be in danger, and with that hurt leg he won’t be able to run far. He jumped up and ran full-speed at the ladder, throwing himself up it and twisting at the latch with nervous gusto. He shoved it outwards and scrambled out of the cavity and onto the wet ground outside. Standing up, he frantically looked around for McCree, rushing around the clearing. He couldn’t have gone far.

At that point, Hanzo realized that something was very, very wrong.

The constant cricket chirps had ceased. There was no rustling in the bushes. No owls hooted, and no cicadas warbled. No fireflies flashed. It was completely silent, and because of this he was hit by this massive wave of paranoia. He felt like he was being watched, but couldn’t tell from where.

Then, slight movement in his peripherals caught his attention, and even though he didn’t want to turn, something in him made him turn.

There, at the edge of the woods where the clearing met the trees, two silver points glowed dully in the darkness. Hanzo turned fully to face them just as a face, lit by the full moon above, came into view.  
Slowly swinging back and forth like a pendulum, a disembodied, roundish head emerged from the trees about nine feet up from the ground. The tiny points were its myopic eyes, irises small plates of silver surrounded in murky black with no visible pupil. Those eyes didn’t seem to be focused on anything, each slightly turned outward, but he felt it staring at him and knew it could see him. Its skin was jet black and wrinkled with little coarse greyish hairs prickling it at random intervals, giving it the rough appearance of a mangy wolf. Large nostrils flared in animalistic rage. The tiny ears atop its head twitched at Hanzo’s heavy, terrified breathing.The only thing that didn’t appear vestigial on the thing were its teeth, which made up the majority of its head. Thick yellowed snaggle teeth pointing every which way jutted out of its mouth, which was pulled back in an aggressive snarl. A disgusting, tarlike liquid oozed from the thing’s mouth, thick beads of it rolling down its lips and plopping onto the ground below. The only sound it was making as it crept forward towards the stunned man was a weird growling; it sounded like a dog but the growl ended too soon and too suddenly, then starting back up again, giving it a broken kind of quality that sent shivers down Hanzo’s spine. 

The body came into the light as it moved closer, revealing an equally mangy but muscular creature, in which its bones and its muscles were given equal bearing to display themselves through the thing’s thick, bumpy skin. Its short tail swished back and forth slowly as its powerful paws, tipped in heavy claws, made ruts in the ground.

Hanzo snapped out of his stupor and ran blindly into the woods, not caring to look back. This is why I should bring my bow and arrow everywhere, he thought, as he hid behind a tree and tried as best he could to find a weapon to defend himself with. There’s no way he’d be able to outrun that creature. 

He found a good, thick branch with a sharp tip from being cracked off the tree on the ground and picked it up, heart pounding and stomach in his throat. Crouching with it gripped tightly in both hands, he hid behind a large oak tree.

He was there for what seemed like forever, adrenaline rushing through his veins, before he smelt something foul in the air. Something hot dripped onto his shoulder, and he brought his hand to wipe it off, before seeing the sooty stain on his fingers and gulping in fear.

Tar.

He slowly looked up, fearing the worst.

And he was right.

Directly behind and above him, the massive thing’s head loomed, mouth agape and dripping. In his frozen state, he could only watch as those dreaded eyes rotated down in their sockets to look at him. Hanzo started to run as it took a step towards him, making a mad dash further into the woods, not thinking to run back to the hatch as stricken with fear as he was. Heavy telltale footsteps behind him signalled the beast getting nearer to him, closing the gap with ease. Branches whipped past him at incredible speeds as he sprinted away like a bat out of hell.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t fast enough and the thing caught up to him, knocking him down as it barreled over him. Its rancid, hot breath condensed on his skin as it hunched over to bring its face down to his, snapping him up and off the ground in one swift movement. The thing’s painfully sharp teeth dug into Hanzo’s back and torso, his shoulder completely inside its hot, putrid mouth. It tossed him up into the air and he struggled to hold onto his makeshift weapon. It flew out of his hand, landing in the bushes just out of his reach from where he thudded down on the hard-packed dirt. The creature ran at him almost excitedly, then as the injured man tried to scramble away, scooped him up again and slung him against a tree, which knocked the breath out of him when he hit it. 

A stroke of luck hit him and he landed right next to the sharpened stick that had been ripped out of his hand as he tumbled to the ground, and he grabbed it, crouching in the underbrush as best he could.  
The thing’s eyesight must not have been very good because it couldn’t spot him, but it did lift its snout to the air and sniffed a few times, so Hanzo figured he didn’t have much time before it found him again. He decided to take the chance and rushed forward, yelling obscenities as he slammed the stick into the back of the thing, causing it to sink several inches into the sore-covered flesh. It reared up and emitted a dreadful noise, like a mix between a howl and a scream, twisting its body towards the full moon in its death throes. Hanzo backed away, transfixed by the display of pain. It fell down to the dirt, flattening the sparse grass as it thrashed and leveling the trees around it. Its monstrous claws left giant ruts in the ground. It continued screaming and howling until it finally grew still, laying on its stomach with its paws tucked by its face.

Hanzo was just about to run back to the hatch when the body twitched. For some reason, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. The supposedly dead beast twitched again; then its skin began to ripple and contort. It shrunk, skin growing lighter and fur disappearing. The sounds of bones cracking and rearranging made Hanzo wince as he grew nearer to see what odd things were happening. Its limbs warped and shrunk and snapped. Its muzzle flattened into its face.

Lying there, looking so small and vulnerable in the giant, violent crater the beast had made, Jesse McCree lay injured with a sharp branch sticking out of his back.

Mortified, Hanzo ran to him and kneeled, holding the man up in his arms. Jesse’s eyes met his, and he tried to speak, succeeding only in a pained gasp. Tiny whispers of “no, no, no” came from Hanzo as he realized what he had done. That fear in Jesse’s face? It looked familiar. He’d seen it before and he knew exactly from where.

It was exactly how Genji had looked at him before he died.


	13. Ziegler

Hanzo inspected the wound, hoping it wasn’t as bad as he thought it might be. The sharp branch poked out of his back, to the left of his spine. He sighed in relief. The man wasn’t in danger of paralyzation, which was good, but the trouble was that he could bleed out in the very near future. He made the decision to leave the branch in to prevent further blood loss. 

He pulled his hand away from the wound and it came back sticky, but the liquid on it was not blood. Black tar stained his fingers and he shuddered. 

As gently as possible, he threw the unconscious Jesse over his shoulder and tried carrying him to the hatch. The man was much larger and heavier than him and proved to be a hassle to lift, leaving Hanzo stumbling while half-supporting the man. Wondering how he was going to get him down the ladder, he sat Jesse down at the edge of the hatch, climbed down a little, and pulled on the wounded, incoherently mumbling man’s legs so that he was essentially sitting on Hanzo’s shoulders. His limp body leaned against the far wall of the cavity which held the ladder, making the task significantly easier. 

Hanzo managed to catch Jesse as he jumped off the ladder. He moved as quickly as he could with the cowboy in tow to the locked main entrance, desperately trying to get the key off of Jesse’s necklace and into the lock, shaking wildly as he did. Before he could get it unlocked, however, the door slid open, and he, confused, looked up.

Standing on the other side, mad as can be, was a very disheveled Dr. Ziegler. Lines of both worry and anger were etched into her face, and Hanzo would have avoided the scary woman like the plague had he not been in quite the predicament. A relieved smile spread across his face, stray hairs sticking to his sweaty skin, and in that instant he realized that the both of them must appear almost comically similar, as they both turned to the injured Jesse. 

Dr. Ziegler’s eyes grew wide and she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “I told you to stay in the building!” she hissed, venom in her voice. She rushed forward to take him, the man slumping lamely onto her in his unconscious state. She backed up a little and Jesse, whose feet dragged on the ground because of their massive height difference, nearly caused her to topple over. She transferred him to a small cot right behind her. Hanzo was just about to thank her profusely for bringing something to carry him, but was stopped in his tracks by the sight of one of her intimidating assistants standing beside it with a sleek metal rifle in hand. He was confused and honestly a bit afraid at first, but then recognized the purpose of the weapon. Dr. Ziegler must have known, somehow, that he was in danger. 

The bullets in the rifle were meant only for Jesse.

Her sharp voice interrupted his thoughts. “Hanzo, grab the handle on the back end of this cot. We’ve got to get him to my office.”

He did as she asked, and with the assistant following close behind, they very carefully carried Jesse down the stairs. It wasn’t nearly as far from Floor G to Dr. Ziegler’s office as it was from Floor G to Hanzo’s room, which he was thankful for, but he was still becoming more and more worried for the man on the cot with every step they traversed. 

They finally reached her door after ten minutes of going down flights of stairs, and in that short amount of time, the white, thin sheets in which Jesse was nestled had turned crimson with blood. Dr. Ziegler placed him on an operating table, and told Hanzo to go wait in the other room while she worked.

So, he did. And every second was hell.

He was still disturbed from the whole turn of events. At least he knew now why no one wanted to be around him, but at what cost? That horrifying thing that Jesse became- he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see were those flashing teeth.

An ache in his back and torso jolted him out of his thoughts. Now that the shock was wearing off, the pain could come to take its rightful place. He lifted his shirt just enough to see the raw, red punctures where the fangs of the beast had marked him.

Worried more for Jesse’s sake than for his own, he decided to tell Dr. Ziegler about it after the ongoing operation, so that she wasn’t distracted. He could wait to be treated.

...

She came out an hour later, having taken the branch out of Jesse’s back and stitched the wound. The pain in Hanzo’s torso had grown, and he was in a sort-of doubled over position in the chair. Dr. Ziegler noticed this immediately. “What happened to you? Let me see.”

Hanzo spoke quietly. “That thing tossed me into the air.”

She seemed concerned at this, ushering him into an examination room and closing the door. She had him sit on a metal table and take his shirt off so that she could treat the wounds. Her cold, gloved hands probed the bloody perforations, applying strong antiseptic. Some weren’t so deep that they needed stitches, so instead, she used butterfly bandages, but for others she gave Hanzo a local anesthetic and sutured them. To distract himself from the uncomfortable pulling, the Shimada talked.

“How did you know that he was wounded, and to bring a cot?”

Dr. Ziegler answered in a distracted way, as her eyes were on her work. “I’m notified every time the door to Floor G is opened. McCree was supposed to open it after turning back into… well, McCree. And he hadn’t done so when he usually did, so I figured either you or him was injured.”

A sharp prick almost outside the range out of the local anesthetic made him wince. “And the gun?”

Dr. Ziegler was silent at first, completing a few stitches before giving a vague answer. “Don’t want to lose another one.”

This made Hanzo’s heart leap into his throat, as the mysterious phrase left much to be desired, and she refused to elaborate, instead turning her full attention to the process of suturing. She dismissed him when finished, peeling off the red-streaked latex gloves and disinfecting instruments.

Instead of going back to his room, Hanzo stood, sore from the stitches, and slowly made his way to the recovery ward, shuffling like an old man to prevent any serious pain. He pushed open the door, confident that Dr. Ziegler was still in the surgical ward and that he wouldn’t be stopped, and stepped inside. There weren’t as many beds as he’d thought there would be, and only a few were occupied and thus hidden by the thin white privacy curtains. He discreetly peeked into each until he found who he was looking for.

Slipping inside the drab curtains, Hanzo stepped as quietly as he could next to the bed so as not to wake the man cradled in it. The little ridges of bandages evident under the thin hospital gown, Jesse lay still on the bed in a medically induced sleep, pain medication dripping into him through an IV. The hushed hum of machines filled the silence.

Hanzo gazed down at Jesse, his mind a mix of horror and concern for him. He kind of didn’t want to be around him after this, as repulsed by the beast as he was, but he also understood that he now couldn’t leave him to go through this by himself.


	14. Sleep

Hanzo didn’t know how long he’d been standing there staring down at Jesse, but it was long enough for his legs to shake in want of rest. He was just about to turn to leave when the curtain rippled and a very drained-looking Dr. Ziegler stepped through, stepping lightly to the bedside. Her shoulders drooped as if there was some invisible weight balanced there, and, hunched over the slightest bit, she rubbed her slender fingers across her white-sleeved arms to warm them. She looked like wilted flower in a vase, just barely drawing enough strength to stand. Her lab coat hung limply off of her tiny stature, making her seem even smaller in the presence of the werewolf. Eyes downcast at the sleeping man, she murmured, “You’re not going to leave him, are you?”

Not sure he’d heard the quiet woman correctly, he questioned, “What?”

She seemed so very tired. “I was-” Her voice broke. “I am so afraid that… well, he doesn’t have anyone… I thought that if you knew what he was that you wouldn’t want to take up with him.”

She gazed down at Jesse with a sort of sad countenance, like she knew he had no hope left in him, placing her hand on the bed next to him hesitantly. “He doesn’t have anyone else.”

Indeed, the man was completely alone in the facility. No one seemed to want to so much as associate with him, and Hanzo was fairly sure he knew why now. Despite the soft air vulnerability surrounding the man as he lay incapacitated on the thin mattress, now that the Shimada knew what he was, he couldn’t help but feel unsafe, and knew that even though he didn’t choose to be, Jesse was a dangerous individual. He certainly look the part, with his broad shoulders, scruffy hair, and muscled, sinewy body, but if one were to scrutinize him, smaller details could suggest otherwise. He looked so peaceful (and actually quite small), lying there with his large hands tucked by his face and his legs bent loosely up by his stomach, the white sheets blending with the cotton of the hospital gown. His slow, laboured breath stirred the stray russet hairs floating around his face, which appeared pale in the wan, fluorescent light of the strips above them.

Taking Hanzo’s silence and blank expression as he studied Jesse as hesitation, Dr. Ziegler spoke up, voice growing increasingly both desperate and despondent. “Hanzo, please do this for him. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. He’s getting worse…”

“What do you mean?” he responded attentively. His eyebrows turned down in concern as he turned to face her. Her expression was that of grief, the light in her eyes pretty much gone and her mouth pulled into a tight frown. 

She kept her eyes on Jesse as she spoke. “I- I think he has a deathwish.”

Hanzo’s eyes shot wide open in surprise. Disquieted, he all but yelled, “What?!”

Dr. Ziegler gave him a look of reproach, the corners of her mouth turning down, and Hanzo made a mental note to try his best not to wake the sleeping man.

“He doesn’t want to be like... this. He hates what he’s become,” she sighed, and when she began to talk again, it seemed the words were hard for her to say, as she struggled to find the right way to convey it. “When he got shot in the leg, that was no accident. I’ve worked with him for a long time, and he’s not so careless as to be harmed in the first few minutes of conflict, especially having that much cover. I think… I think he was trying to be hit farther up on the body.”

Hanzo’s hand flew to his mouth as he gasped. Within the second he’d looked down at Jesse and realized how he must have felt the night before his transformation, when he had asked if Hanzo thought the rest of the Overwatch agents were right to avoid him. He kicked himself for not telling the man what he had needed to hear, and what happened to be true; that even though Hanzo had a hard time admitting it, and even though Jesse could be a little scary at times, he enjoyed the company the man brought him and didn’t wish for it to end. He knew what being utterly alone could do to a person, after isolating himself from his clan after the incident with his brother. He hadn’t known anyone, and was coincidentally the type to reject social situations easily, creating a breeding ground for depression and loneliness. The solitude had actually been enough for his voice to grow ragged from unuse. He’d not have wished it on any other person, but here was Jesse, going through the exact same thing, perhaps even worse than what Hanzo had to experience.

He looked so vulnerable there; not to physical harm but rather to the emotional kind, all curled up and bandaged, weak. Contentedly unaware of the conversation going on around him, Jesse gave a small sigh in his sleep and the fingers of his real hand twitched slightly, and as he lay there on the bed, Hanzo made a decision.

Hanzo faced Dr. Ziegler fully and gave an affirmative nod. He knew what he had to do. His voice was quiet, but determined:

“I will take care of him.”

He placed a firm hand on her shoulder, his expression softening. Dr. Ziegler broke into a relieved, tired smile and let her gaze drop to the floor before meeting Hanzo’s eyes. And then, she did something very out of character.

She wrapped him in a thankful, tight hug, then let go and held him back at arm’s distance warmly. “You are a good man, Hanzo Shimada.” 

Flashes of his destitute past clouded his mind, and then of how he had overcome his own emptiness, and he made a silent promise to the sleeping man. 

“Do not worry, Doctor. He’ll be alright.”


	15. Hospital

Dr. Ziegler decided to keep McCree in the infirmary until his back had healed, as it was a fairly serious wound, and having to take care of that in addition to his injured leg would have left him even more impaired than before. He accepted this with relative ease and without his typical protest, given the amount of pain medication he was on.

Hanzo had gone back to the room to gather his things. He picked up the medicine case from where it lay on the floor, and took the worn, dog eared book from the bedside table. Holding it in his arms, he flipped through it, mostly out of curiosity. The pages were somewhat tattered and yellowed, and the thing appeared as if it had been read hundreds of times. The edges of the brownish hard cover faded into off-white where the material had been rubbed off, and the title had all but disappeared under the many thumbprints smeared across it. It was still readable, however, and Hanzo peered closer to see what it said.

The name of the book was Catch-22, and as he checked the copyright date, he saw both that it really was an old classic, and that it had been given to him, based on the chickenscratch handwriting staining the inside of the cover. The written phrase was a somewhat generic sentiment about how dull waiting for missions could be. Okay, he reasoned, so it was probably gifted by a fellow Overwatch agent. Underneath the little sentence was a dash and then just a “Reyes”. 

The familiarity of the name bugged Hanzo, but he decided to worry about it later and bring McCree’s things to him. He also folded up the squeaky old wheelchair and pulled that up the stairs too. He left it and the medicine case with Dr. Ziegler as he walked through her office, and she thanked him and gave him a warm smile. It had been the first in a long while that she genuinely meant.

When he pushed open the door to the infirmary, the curtain to McCree’s space was already pulled open and he was sitting up in bed, looking as if he’d just woke up. His tawny bed-head hair was matted in the back, and he was blinking tiredly at the bright lights above him.

He approached quietly with a nervous smile, and the disoriented man didn’t seem to take note of him until he was nearly by his side. 

“Those pain medications have been taking their toll on you, Jesse,” he chuckled, eyes wandering down his real arm to the point of insertion of the IV drip. 

McCree turned to face him, peering at him through narrow eyes and his mouth hanging slightly open in brief confusion, before he recognized the face in front of him. “Hanzo!” he slurred, sleepy but still somewhat awake. “Yeah, they got me on pretty heavy stuff here. I just woke up.” He looked annoyed at this and placed his hand on the tube as if to tug it out, but seemed to rightly decide against it. Hanzo made to place the book on the bed, but before he could bring his hand down all the way, McCree grabbed it from him. “Hey, my book! How’d ya know to bring it?” 

The Shimada shrugged. “I… had a feeling you’d be bored up here,” he nodded, his eyes turning to the drab room.

McCree placed it beside him on the bed with a possessive pat and turned to face Hanzo again, the smile that had been tugging at the corners of his mouth disappearing as he looked past the man and at the rows of beds stretching towards the walls. His eyes flicked back to Hanzo’s. “Why am I here, anyways?” he murmured, turning his head the other way to take in the rest of the infirmary.

This caught Hanzo by surprise, his eyes widening. Did he not remember? Surely being stabbed in the back with a less than razor sharp tree branch would be a memorable experience.

“You do not know already?”

“Uhm, should I?” McCree asked, puzzled, before realization became stricken across his face. “Something went wrong. You- you didn’t stay on Floor G. That has to be it. Why would you-”

“I had good reason,” interrupted Hanzo. “You were screaming, and I had thought that perhaps something had happened to you.”

“Angela and I told you to stay on Floor G!” McCree raised his voice, becoming almost frantic, causing both of them to notice the faces of the other patients turned with interest towards them. Hanzo hurriedly pulled the curtain, squeaking, across the square rung above the bed to give themselves a little privacy, then turned back to Jesse, who appeared to be both trying to glare at him and avoid his gaze. Hushedly, he murmured, “I am sorry for your injury. It was merely in self defense.” 

McCree’s eyes grew wide and he seemed to want to sink down into the bed, into the floor, and disappear forever. “You… saw it…” he spoke in a barely audible whisper.

Hanzo answered his question with another. “You really do not remember?”

He looked lost for words, staring up at the Shimada with a tired, saddened dullness to his eyes, and Hanzo knew that he thought he’d be alone once more, that Hanzo wouldn’t want to be around him, just like everyone else, after what he’d seen. He thought Hanzo would avoid him in the halls, sit elsewhere if they were in the cafeteria at the same time, ignore him on their missions.

Hanzo smiled, because he knew otherwise.

“It is alright, Jesse. I think of you as no less.” It was a simple phrase to say, but those few words were enough for him to reach out as far as he could while remaining on the bed and pull Hanzo into a tight embrace. “Thank you,” he sighed in the respite of his worry and leaned back onto the linen pillows. 

Then, he frowned, and turned his gaze to Hanzo once more. “You ain’t… afraid..?”

He ran his hand through his hair and exhaled. “I figured I would be safe as long as I obey Dr. Ziegler from now on. She knows more about you than I do.” It was a lacking answer, and he knew it. Of course he was afraid.

But he’d made a promise, and he intended to keep it.


	16. Dangerous

34B was decidedly lonely without the presence of McCree to fill it. It was much too quiet, lacking in the sounds of his fingers turning over the pages of the book or the husky, soothing voice of his. Hanzo often found himself lying on the squeaky bed, turning over McCree’s small black reading glasses in his hands. He would visit the man from time to time, bringing him various things, mostly books, from his room to keep him occupied in the dull infirmary, before heading back down the stairs to eat at the cafeteria or to sleep. 

It was at one of these times, as he was just about to bed down for the night, when an orange notification on his holovid lit the room. It was a mission brief. Hanzo was to arrive at the hangar the next night. The team would be observing and possibly infiltrating a supposed TALON base to check if there was anything of note there, as they had only gotten wind of it being one. It would be a small mission, with only a few attending it.

Hanzo strided to the wall where his bow lay on a rack, quiver hung by its strap beside it. He picked it up, testing the tauntness of the bowstring with his calloused fingers. It was as it always was: perfectly attuned to his strength, the bow the ideal flexibility. He pulled it back to his cheek without nocking an arrow, feeling the tension and the weight of the thing. It would feel good to be able to use it again, he thought, as he slowly returned the string back to its normal position and carefully placed the bow back on its rack.

He had a difficult time getting to sleep that night, eyes trained on the smooth ceiling above him, mind racing. It felt to him like he’d never be able to rest, but eventually, exhaustion took over and his eyelids drooped heavily over his eyes. Slumber came soon after.

The night was choppy and dreamless, the troubled man waking up at random intervals and turning over in the chilly covers before falling back asleep. Even though his sleep was interrupted and rough, it was still a somewhat welcome change to the terrifying wolf nightmares. Those eyes still haunted him.

He wasn’t entirely sure what woke him up, but his eyes snapped open at some early morning hour and he lazily slipped out of bed, stumbling to the bathroom. His hands found the porcelain rim of the cold sink and he gripped it to steady himself, his shoulders hunched over and hair disheveled. He brushed his teeth, pulled up his hair and tied it, washed his face, all while still trying to blink the sleepiness out of his eyes.  
After pulling on a wrinkled shirt and pants, Hanzo made his way down to the cafeteria, pushing open one of the metal doors with his shoulder. Maneuvering past the few people that had wanted to eat breakfast as early as he did, he picked up an apple and orange juice and sat down at one of the tables. His meal had halfway disappeared when he heard a chair to the right of him scrape across the floor, and the creaking of someone putting their weight on it.

Beside him, Lena tapped her fingers quickly on the grey tabletop. He turned to look at her, her expression startling him. Her face was all screwed up in confusion.

“You- ah, you don’t suppose you’ve seen McCree around, have you?

Hanzo turned back to his orange juice and took a sip. “Why do you want to know?” he spoke quietly.

She rubbed the back of her neck with her hand, looking at the floor. “It’s just that he’s usually here a lot around… uh… this time of the month, and…” Lena trailed off, kind of glancing at the cafeteria’s small, mostly hidden bar. It was incredibly restrictive, with age limits above those of most countries, small portions, and it didn’t allow anyone to drink 42 hours before a mission, but Hanzo could still understand why McCree would want to get his fill after transformation. It must be a regular thing for him.

“I just haven’t seem him here yet,” she finished, interrupting his thoughts.

He had a feeling her question wasn’t about concern for the werewolf, but more to sate her interest and curiosity, so he didn’t answer it. “Lena… why did you say he was dangerous?” He knew perfectly why Jesse was, but what he didn’t know was how she would know that. From what he saw, it was kept fairly hush-hush by both Jesse and Dr. Ziegler. And it wasn’t just Lena, either. It seemed to be that everyone avoided him. So how could so many people know about something the only two confidantes treated like such a secret? 

She raised her eyebrows, hand fluttering to her chest. “Do... you not know? I mean, you’ve been spending so much time around him…”

“I know what he is,” he piped up, and his fingers instinctively grasped his shirt directly above where the bandages wrapped around his torso. “But I have a reason to. How do you know?”

Lena’s eyes flickered around the room before settling on his, and she sort of hunched over with an air of secrecy. When she spoke, it was a mere whisper. “Everyone knows. When he was first brought here, it was because of his… condition. Overwatch thought it’d be useful. They did have the brains to lock him up his first transformation, but they were stupid enough to just put him in a vacant room, lock and board the door, and stick a guard outside it. That thing sliced through that door like a hot knife in butter.

“Killed the guard and ransacked the floor it was on. The rest of us heard the screams and the howls and booked it into our rooms. We all knew it was McCree when he was placed on leave from the missions for a while and his room was moved up a few floors.”

Hanzo’s head reeled. That thing had been loose in the facility? No wonder everyone was so distant around him. He’d killed someone. Dr. Ziegler’s words came back to him, how she didn’t want to “lose another one”. 

“After that, we can’t really help but feel threatened around him. I don’t know why they kept him around, even, if he’s a danger to the rest of us,” she tittered. “Anyways, cheers!”  
And with that, Lena zipped off to god knows where, leaving Hanzo alone with his thoughts.


	17. Figure

Static buzzed in his head as Hanzo pulled himself up into the small aircraft and sat down on one of the hard, metal benches. Ever since his talk with Lena, he’d been either thinking about that fateful day that caused McCree’s reclusion or not thinking at all. He wasn’t sure why it affected him so much, seeing as he’d never really bonded with anyone since his youth and Genji. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was something else entirely.

The metal carriage of the ship jolted and shook, machinery humming as it ever-so-slowly lifted itself into the still air of the hangar, then rocketed upwards out of the facility. 

True to the message on his holovid, only a few people were seated around him. The only people he knew were Symmetra; who she did not greet him when he sat down across from her, examining her immaculate fingernails with a practiced, hard gaze; and Lena, who sat swinging her legs back and forth with a goofy grin on her face. It must be a common thing, then, if Lena was not talking; people keeping mostly to themselves on these missions. With nothing else to do, he leaned back and waited for sleep to take him.

…

Hanzo awoke as the craft’s motors hummed in the effort to gently land the ship. It shook to a halt as one of the people Hanzo didn’t know briefed them on their mission. They were merely here to scout, so they were to avoid confrontation at all costs if they came across another person. They’d all be going in separate directions, Hanzo and some of the stealthier ones instructed to enter the buildings and the slower ones instructed to loop around to the backs of the towers and to guard the ship.

The team filed out of the ship slowly and as quietly as they could made their way through the two hundred yards or so of forest and thick underbrush separating them from the supposed base. Hanzo placed his feet carefully, avoiding the patches of crunchy dried leaves and instead favoring the packed dirt. One could never be too cautious.

It did not take long to reach the outermost fence, at which the group branched off to complete their individual tasks.

Hanzo pressed himself up against the fence, squinting his eyes as he peered through the gaps in the near-rotten wood. No guards, no cameras. Getting inside should be easy enough. He tensed his muscles, then sprang up and over the fence, pushing himself over it with the help of his hand resting on the zenith of one of the posts. He landed fluidly, the toes of the metal prosthetics absorbing the shock and the fingers of one hand steadying him.

He had landed near the corner of a building, and speedily darted into the narrow, dark space between the wall and the fence before anyone would have had the time to spot him. The wall was rough and made of concrete, he noted, as he brushed his hand against the grainy structure. It seemed old, but still sturdy as he began to climb, pressing his fingers into the various cracks. His metal clawlike toes did most of the work, able to take advantage of the slightest irregularity in the wall, propelling him upwards incredibly quickly. His hand touched a windowsill, so he used his forearm to support himself while he deftly slid his fingers under the frame and slid it up. It was near-ancient, and took a bit of elbow grease to budge, but once it had slid an inch the rest was easy. Hanzo reached inside the window and grasped the wall on the other side, pulling himself all the way in. He left it open so that he could escape quickly if need be.

The room was dark, only lit by the faint light filtering in through the window behind him. From what he could see, it was mostly empty except for a tipped-over wooden chair laying in the left corner, covered in dust. There was no door on the doorframe. As he walked out of the room, he discovered there weren’t actually any doors. The place looked positively vacated, and he was mostly convinced that it wasn’t a TALON base as suspected, but he needed to confirm it anyways. 

The hallways were just as empty and dark as the room was, the inky black making it impossible to see where it ended. Room by room he went, peeking into the always-empty space before moving on to the next.  
He was about to clear a room about halfway down the hall when an immense feeling of dread hit him. It was a familiar sensation, and he knew what it meant. He stooped down, eyes wide, straining in the dark for any sign of someone else being there, but could find no one.

The closer he inched to that room, the more his body was telling him to just get out of there, to just leave, but he had to know what was in that room.

A tall, dark figure stood at an angle with its back to him, silently rooting through one of the many flimsy cardboard boxes stacked precariously to the ceiling. It was wearing a long black cloak and held what looked to be a white mask in its hand. The air around it seemed choked with some kind of thick black fog, which did nothing to improve the visibility in the room. The figure took something from the box, turning it over in its hands. A brown hardcover book.

The black smog made its way into Hanzo’s lungs and he started to cough. He tried his best to stifle the sound with the sleeve of his shirt, but the rustling of the fabric only made more noise.

The figure whipped its head around and that uncanny-valley sensation hit Hanzo like a semi-truck. One side of his face and neck was severely disfigured. The skin was charred black, flaking away in some places to reveal pink, wet, raw skin and boils that disappeared into the fabric of his collar. The shredded flesh revealed some of his bone and most of his teeth. The rest of his face had a grey, blotchy quality to it, kind of like a dead body.

That dreadful face stretched into a petrifying scowl just as Hanzo booked it out of there. He didn’t care how much noise he was making as he bolted down the hallway, skidding to a stop as he reached the room he’d entered the building through, hopping through the window and dropping to the ground. He climbed the fence in two seconds flat and ran towards the woods.

Just as Hanzo darted into the treeline, he felt those dead eyes on him. Turning to gaze up at the building, he thought he could see a dark silhouette standing in the window he’d just come through.

Breathing heavily, he made his way back through the woods and to the ship.

…

After reporting what he’d seen to the mission briefer, she called all agents back to the ship to leave. The team would have been formidable if they’d been assembled with the intent to fight, but their job was to scout. And that job was done.

As they took off, Hanzo laid his head back against the buzzing metal wall of the aircraft. No amount of disfigurement could mask what had been plastered all over every holovid in the world, what had been printed on every magazine in every coffee shop and supermarket.

He knew the face. He knew the explosion.

He knew the figure was Gabriel Reyes.


	18. Parasite

It simply didn’t make any sense. Hanzo knew Gabriel Reyes had died in the explosion; there was no way he could’ve survived it. And even if he did survive the initial shock, surely he’d have died by now with those nasty wounds. How could they look so fresh, when the incident had occurred several years before? It puzzled him greatly.

He felt the jolt of the steel carriage connecting with the hangar floor, jerking him out of his thoughts. He stood up shakily, exhausted as the other agents were both from physical, strenuous activity and mental strain. His hand slid whining against the metal of the ladder as he descended, loud clanking echoing through the vast hangar wherever his foot met the step. He didn’t bother trying to muffle the noise. He was too tired for that.

He followed the group out of the hangar, and, suddenly becoming disgustingly aware of the sweat making his clothes cling coldly to his skin, decided to head to his room and shower.

…

The steam filled the small bathroom, fogging up the tiny, glassy mirror and veiling everything in white. Tepid drops of water rolled off his smooth skin, beading up in the depressions of his collar bone and racing each other down the gentle curves of his back. He closed his eyes, mouth slightly parted as he leaned his head back into the stream, letting the water comb and straighten his hair into a wet mass of black. The aching in his muscles didn’t fade, but it was still somewhat soothed away. That encounter had really done a number on him. It’s not everyday you see a dead man walking.

He stayed like that for an hour, letting the water wash away his aches and pains until the drops felt like pelting ice on his skin. At that point he pulled back the shower curtain and took his towel in his hand, soaking up all of the water and leaving dry, clean skin in its place. Goosebumps peppered his arms as he turned the cold shower off, the constant ringing of the droplets hitting the metal basin slowing to a slow drip. He stepped out of the shower, and, not bothering to dress, left the bathroom door open to help the steam disperse. Hanzo pulled back and slipped under the covers, and fell asleep.

…

After yet another dreamless night, Hanzo drowsily drifted into awakeness. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes and slid out of bed, slipping on black trousers and a plain blue t-shirt. McCree would be leaving the infirmary soon, probably today. Dr. Ziegler had told him over holovid messages that the constant bed rest had allowed both his leg and his back to heal, so Hanzo knew the cowboy wouldn’t be needing him anymore. There was a strange sort of sadness to it, because even though he didn’t want to admit it Hanzo had enjoyed the company of the man, and much preferred it to the aching emptiness of the cold small bedroom. He knew he’d be seeing him around and spending time with him as a friend as he’d promised the desperate doctor, still, though, and beat himself up in his mind about the loneliness. He’d spent more than a decade on his own; he should be able to go back to it without any reservations.

Hanzo combed his hair back with his fingers as he shuffled out of his room, closing and locking the door behind him. He walked the short stretch from his room to the cafeteria, bracing his arm against the clammy door to push it open without having to touch the oily handle, and stepped inside. Surprisingly, McCree was already there, and seemed to have just entered by the looks of it. He was going through the line, that all familiar gap surrounding him with empty air, but this time he didn’t seem to be bothered by it. He may even have been smiling, but it was hard to tell from a distance. 

As always, he seemed to know on instinct that Hanzo was there and now that he knew about the lycanthropy, he wondered if he could smell him. He sure hoped he didn’t smell bad.

McCree jerked his head up from the sausage he was holding with a pair of small serving tongs, smile stretching further across his face. He turned back to the line and finished piling food onto his already heavy plate before stepping out and making his way over to the Shimada. 

When he was within earshot, Hanzo called out, “Already out?” in greeting, with an upturning of one of the corners of his mouth and a raised eyebrow.

That southern drawl answered him with a grin. “Yessir, Angela wanted t’ keep me in there for one more day to make sure I was alright, but I declined. Couldn’t wait to walk again.”

“I see,” Hanzo laughed warmly, noting how McCree was shifting leg to leg and tapping his feet, like he had way too much energy stored up. And then, jesting: “It would be useless asking you to sit to eat, then.”

…

They ended up leaning against a wall near one of the corners of the room; Hanzo, with his hands in his pockets and one leg up, foot pressed against the metal; and Jesse, one hand supporting his loaded plate as he ate. Hanzo figured they were far enough from the other inhabitants of the cafeteria that they could speak more than just small talk.

He knew Jesse had killed someone and wrecked the floor he was on, but he didn’t want to ask directly about it, as he didn’t want to upset the man. It was probably a sore subject for him, so he decided on a path of conversation that just might allow him to shimmy into asking Jesse why he did what he did.

“Jesse, when you are like that-” he paused, searching for the right words. “When you transform, can you control-?”

Jesse cut him off immediately with a chilling stare, mouth pressed into an expressionless line. “I want to get one thing straight. That thing is NOT me. It’s a… it’s like a.. parasite.” He shuddered and stared off into the distance, eyes clouded. “I black out and I wake up when it’s over. That’s it.”

Well, that answers that, Hanzo thought. Whatever the motivations of the thing to act the way it did, McCree had no idea and wouldn’t be able to offer any insight. 

But maybe, just maybe, Hanzo could help him learn to control it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW chapter coming soon. I don't know if it'll be the next one but soon


	19. Whiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys voted on nsfw stuff in the polls, so i'm gonna work up to it :) but for now, have this

They met like that for weeks, chatting in the cafeteria or whenever they saw each other in the halls. McCree never really made the effort to spend time with him outside of coincidence run-ins, at least from Hanzo’s perspective, anyways. He never considered the possibility that McCree might still have reservations about hanging around someone he’d harmed. Hanzo was not one to initiate sociality either, and so, they slowly grew apart.

Their conversations had no substance anymore, just composed of small talk and the petty drama of the facility’s inhabitants. McCree never spoke a word of his condition, and Hanzo never asked. Each longed for the companionship of the other in the isolation of alienation, but neither knew how to admit it.

So, as it was only natural of him to do, McCree decided to try the time-tested Old West™ method of strengthening friendships.

He persuaded the bartender to give him a half-bottle of whiskey.

It looked more like intimidation than persuasion to Hanzo, who stood with his arms crossed, out of earshot at the table, slowly shaking his head from side to side while his mouth curved up in disbelief. He tried and failed to suppress a chuckle as the huge man leaned one arm on the countertop, towering over the panicking bartender, no doubt talking his ear off about the graphic horrors of war and injury as he pulled down the collar of his plaid shirt to expose part of the wraparound bandages left on to protect the newly healed wound. The bartender, however frightened, shook his head and tried inching to the farthest side of the bar, but McCree followed him. He leaned forward and in a hushed tone, spoke a single line, flashing a wide smile. Hanzo wasn’t sure if the cowboy was aware that his teeth were what in the end persuaded the bartender to grab the nearest bottle and hurriedly shove it his way, but it sure did work. 

“‘Scary’ has its advantages,” Jesse trilled in a singsong voice as he neared the baffled Shimada, who whistled, amazed. “It sure does.”

“I reckon we shouldn’t drink this here,” he mused, one hand wrapped around the bottle and the other tucked into his pants pocket. He looked up from the label, eyes roaming around the room. “Or everyone will be tryin’ to get extra booze.”

Hanzo nodded in agreement, and so they made their way through the crowd, McCree sort of bent over to hide the whiskey. It wasn’t a large bottle, rather skinny, making it easy to hide in the crook of his giant arm.

They settled on drinking it in Hanzo’s room instead of McCree’s, mostly because it was closer, but also because McCree refused to let Hanzo walk down several flights of stairs possibly intoxicated in the near future. Even though he’d only ever drunk small amounts of sake at a time, and never whiskey, he insisted that he could make it, but McCree was not having it. “I’ve got practice,” he’d said. “Been drunk a lot more than you, probably.” Hanzo had laughed and reluctantly given in.

He unlocked the door with a slightly shaking hand, mentally chiding himself for his nervousness. What was there to be nervous about? 

They both entered, Hanzo first, then McCree, who had to bend down to clear the doorframe. He pulled the door gently shut with his unoccupied hand and crossed the few steps to the bed, flopping onto it with a sigh. The whiskey had already been uncorked by the bartender prior to it being given to McCree, so it was easy to slip his thumbnail under the stopper and pop it open. No seals to break.

Hanzo placed his room key on the bedside table, seating himself gracefully next to the larger man, who stuck the cork into his pocket and held the bottle up to his lips, taking a long swig. He passed it to the hesitant Shimada, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, hands hanging down loosely.

He was right to be hesitant. While not a lightweight by any means, he’d only ever had sake, and he knew whiskey had twice the alcohol by volume. Genji was quite the fan, the sybarite that he was. Sometimes it was even too much for him.

Hanzo pressed the rim of the whiskey bottle to his mouth and tilted his head back, gulping down a small mouthful of the sloshing liquid before lowering it. It burned on the way down his throat and left him coughing, to which McCree chuckled. “You alright?” he grinned, and when Hanzo answered “yes” in a voice sounding like he had the worst case of strep throat humanly possible, he burst into a fit of deep laughter.

They ended up both with their backs leaned against the headboard of the bed, passing the bottle back and forth and idly chatting, neither of them drunk, but both somewhat buzzed. Eventually Hanzo knew he’d have a headache in the morning if he drank anymore, and let McCree have the bottle, who downed the rest in one long draft before telling Hanzo to “scoot” so that he could put the empty bottle on the nightstand. The Shimada wiggled to lower his torso off the headboard and onto the bed to give him room. The cowboy’s broad chest (albeit clothed) inches from his face as he stretched to place the bottle delicately on the table made Hanzo’s cheeks heat up, but with an indignant sniff he neglected to acknowledge it. McCree leaned back against the headboard with a sigh and Hanzo shimmied his way back to his former position.  
Looking for any way to kill the lull in their conversation, the cowboy glanced over Hanzo, eyes tracing down his body until they caught on a jagged scar running from the base of his hand to the crook of his thumb. “What’s that from?” he asked, and when he saw the confused look on the Shimada’s face, tapped the scar with his index finger.

“Oh,” Hanzo answered reservedly. “I was trying to remove a broadhead from an arrow shaft and my hand slipped.”

McCree winced. “Oof, sounds painful. Never had that problem with a gun. ‘Course, I did whap myself in the face when I was young with the knockback on my boss’s shotguns…”

This elicited a laugh from the other man, his hand flying to his mouth in mirth. “That’s… ridiculous.” 

He frowned huffily. “Well, it hurt. Gave me this little number.” His index finger indicated a tiny, faint line where the gun must have hit him, and the insignificance of the barely visible scar made Hanzo laugh even harder. He was doubled over, body folded in on itself and hands grasping his shirt, engulfed in hilarity. As he wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling, the silence on McCree’s part made him glance over at him. The man was staring at Hanzo, a bright, ruddy blush splashed across his face. “Damn,” he mumbled, turning his head so he was no longer looking that way.

“Is something wrong, Jesse?”

“Nah,” he answered. “It’s just… I’m glad it was you, y’know? I’m - I’m not alone anymore.” He spoke so softly at the end of this sentence that Hanzo wondered if he’d heard him correctly. He had one leg pulled up, his arm slung across it in an almost defensive way, as if he was trying to block himself off. The messy russet hair hanging down in front of his turned-away face hid his expression.

Hanzo moved to speak but before he could utter a word, Jesse glanced at the holovid’s clock and slid himself off the bed with a huff, starting towards the door, stance betraying his hesitancy. 

“Well, I do believe it’s time for me to get goin’. See ya in the morning.”

Just as his hand hovered over the doorknob, fingers just barely gracing it, the buzz of the whiskey sitting warm in Hanzo’s belly gave him just enough of a boost of self-assurance to speak up. Funny how alcohol does that.

What he meant to say was a well structured sentence, like “You don’t have to go,” “You can stay if you want to,” or even “Please stay with me”. What came out, however, was much less complex, to his dismay:

“Stay.”

It sounded like a plea. His voice wilted into silence at the end, as he knew he’d put way more emotion into it than he had intended. No, he had REVEALED way more emotion than he’d intended.

Jesse pulled his hand back from the doorknob tentatively, about to ask Hanzo if he was sure, but the Shimada had already fled to the bathroom to pretend to take a long time getting ready for bed so he could avoid any ensuing conversation.

The cowboy laughed under his breath. “I understand,” he murmured, not talking to anyone in particular.

When Hanzo had finished taking the longest shower he’d ever taken and brushing his teeth, he stepped out of the bathroom in his boxer shorts and a robe, for modesty. The steam from the shower billowed out behind him in a white cloud.

Jesse was already asleep, hands balled up near his face, messy hair matted beneath him on the pillow. He looked much softer when he slept, the creases brought about by the constant frown plaguing him gentle now. His shoulders rose and fell calmly with each slow breath.

Trying his best not to wake the man, Hanzo slipped silently out of the robe and into the covers, removing the prosthetics and placing them by the bedside table as quietly as he could. He switched the lamp off, the warm orange light flickering before leaving the room void of color.  
The bed was warm thanks to the absolute furnace that was the werewolf next to him, but he wasn’t complaining. He also wasn’t complaining when he felt Jesse’s hand graze his ribs, or the tired sigh as he shifted in his sleep. Hanzo had known Jesse was like this from the first night they’d spent in bed together, and even though he’d moved away then, he decided not to tonight. After all, the man had been through so much. Maybe he needed it. At least, that’s what Hanzo told himself to justify it, as Jesse pulled him closer.

They ended up wrapped up in each other, Hanzo’s face resting on Jesse’s arm, the other laying across his waist, his good hand pressed lightly against the small of the Shimada’s back. Though he didn’t want to admit it, Hanzo knew it wasn’t uncomfortable in the least. He fell asleep like that, lulled into unconsciousness by the steady rasp of Jesse’s breathing.

At some point in the night Hanzo drowsily awoke to the quite cold lack of another body in his bed. He sat up in confusion, squinting his eyes and scanning the room. A small rectangle of fluorescent light in the otherwise pitch black room told him the bathroom door had been opened and the light switch flipped.

He was about to roll over and go back to bed when, from the crack of the bathroom door, he heard a horrible coughing sound, and then a splatter as something dripped into the sink.  
That woke him up faster than any alarm ever could. He sprung out of bed and rushed to the door, yanking it open, desperately hoping Jesse just had a bad cold or something and wasn’t hurt.

He wasn’t hurt, but what Hanzo found was much worse.

Jesse stood over the sink, breathing heavily, frozen in place with his hands holding a white-knuckle grip on the sides of the sink. Coagulated in a little pool, sliding sluggishly down the drain, that tarlike substance stained the porcelain black. It dripped from Jesse’s mouth, running down his chin to collect in his beard and dribble into the sink. 

“Jesse!” Hanzo all but shouted. He hurried to his side and tried to calm the shaking man, pulling at his arm. “Jesse.” He spoke more gently now, but he could not hide the note of anxiety in his voice. “Let’s sit down. Can you do that?” 

Jesse let himself be led to the edge of the bathtub, and Hanzo gently guided him down onto the floor so that his back was against it. He slid down next to him, not knowing quite what to do, listening quietly to the still-panting man on his right.

They sat like that for near an hour, Hanzo wanting to help but not being able to, Jesse’s shoulders slowly drooping as exhaustion took the place of fear. With no passing of conversation, they both stood, making their way out of the bathroom and back to the bed. Jesse lay with his back turned to Hanzo, who was at a loss for words.

“Are you… okay?”

Jesse didn’t speak for a long time. Maybe he didn’t have the strength to. But, eventually, it seemed he was able to answer.

“I will be.”

Hanzo could think of only one thing to do. He scooted up next to the cowboy, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. “I’m here for you,” he whispered into Jesse’s neck. “I always will be.”

The last thing he felt before he fell asleep was Jesse threading his fingers through his own.


	20. Blackwatch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:   
> 1\. This fic is not done, but when it is, I'll go back and fix up some of the earlier chapters, polish them a bit  
> 2\. This chapter was brought to you by enough black tea to put me on a caffeine high and also the song jeremy by pearl jam  
> 3\. If you wanna see ugly, ugly werewolf McCree, I drew you all a picture (: [art](http://peppermintemperament.tumblr.com/image/157088425914)

Shifting from the heavy blissfulness of sleep, Hanzo slowly came to. The first thought that lazily drifted into his mind as he lay in the warm cocoon of blankets was how utterly comfortable he was. Jesse’s hand still held his own, rough, calloused fingertips pressing into his smooth palm, shifting slightly with each rise and fall of Hanzo’s arm, which was draped across his chest. Everywhere his skin touched the cowboy’s, who was lying on his back, it was cozily warm. The archer’s breath just barely ghosted against Jesse’s neck, lips almost touching it. Their legs (or what was left of Hanzo’s, anyways) were tangled in such a way that sleepy, disoriented Hanzo couldn’t tell where his skin stopped and the cowboy’s started. And, despite all of this, he didn’t move away. He was too close to slipping back into unconsciousness to care.

That is, until Jesse started to shift around. With a start, Hanzo realized he was waking up, and he went completely cold. He was not allowed moments like this. He was supposed to be disciplined, distant, as his father taught him. And he had managed to do it, until now.

Hanzo slowed his breathing and shut his eyes, pretending, hopefully convincingly, to still be asleep. Completely still, he could hear Jesse’s breathing speed up, and knew he was awake.

Jesse sat up, slid his legs out from Hanzo’s and freed his hand, leaning against the creaking headboard with a tired groan. He sat there for at least a minute, and even though Hanzo knew it was way too dark in the room for the werewolf to be able to see his face, he still felt eyes burning holes into his skin.

An eternity passed with Hanzo just trying to fall back into the rhythm of sleep before Jesse spoke. It was quiet, but still had a hint of smugness to it, and he could just see the corners of his mouth tugging up as that southern drawl brought him out of his charade.

“Y’know I can hear you, right?”

Hanzo’s eyes snapped open in surprise, against his will. He had still been trying to pretend, but he knew now his cover was blown. All he could do was admit a tiny “What?”

He scoffed. “Your heartbeat. It’s way too fast for a sleepin’ man.”

Hanzo didn’t know how to respond. Jesse had known he hadn’t moved from being so close to him, especially when awake? Shit. What kind of signals would that send?

He kicked himself for thinking _exactly what you meant by it, Hanzo._

He whispered tentatively, trying to hide the embarrassment in his voice. “You can hear my heartbeat?”

Jesse chuckled, his voice low with amusement. He seemed to be taking great pride in teasing the Shimada. “Bein’ a werewolf’s more than transforming, darlin’. I mean, usually I’d not be able to, but it’s awfully quiet here...”

 _Well, that explains it_ , he thought, shimmying up to a sitting position beside Jesse with a huff of indignation. He opened his mouth to reply, perhaps with a snarky comment, when something stopped him dead in his tracks.

Had Jesse called him _darling_?

He snapped his mouth shut, eyes wide, turning his head to meet the gaze of the other man. Coming from a background of seclusion and the cold relationships he and his family had, Hanzo was not used to terms of endearment at all. He honestly didn’t know how to respond.

McCree caught his gaze, bringing his hand up to abashedly rub the back of his neck, eyes turning down to the floor. It was clear he’d seen the look on Hanzo’s face and knew exactly what it meant. Exhaling a small, nervous laugh, he stammered, “Sorry. Old habit, y’know.”

Hanzo forced his face to assume its default expression, a slight, polite smile tugging at his lips. “There is no need to apologize,” he voiced, leaning back against the freezing headboard with a still-sleepy sigh. It was frigid in the room without the werewolf keeping him warm, cold seeping in from the metal walls and the tons of dirt above, keeping the blazing sun off the facility. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle, but it was much more comfortable to slide off the bed and slip on a clean t-shirt from the dresser in the corner. As Hanzo was dressing, McCree stood to do the same, pulling the worn sleeves of one of the flannel shirts from his endless supply of flannel shirts over his arms. “Breakfast?” the cowboy questioned as he tugged his blue jeans over his boxer briefs.

Hanzo gave a curt, tired nod and a “mhmm” in acknowledgement, unlocking the door and placing a steady hand on it to push it open. They made their way to the cafeteria, walking side by side, each wearing a weary, heavy-lidded expression, still not fully awake.

…

Sitting next to each other at the always-empty grey table, Hanzo and McCree dug into their respective plates, the former more reservedly and proper than the latter. They were silent, not particularly because of any argument that had transpired between the two, but rather, just because they were comfortable enough in each other's presence to be so. Idly, as he drank his orange juice, Hanzo’s mind wandered back to his first mission there, when the silence between them had instead been awkward and uneasy. So much had changed since then. Hanzo snuck a glance at the man eating next to him, allowing himself a small smile easily hidden behind the almost-empty glass.

…

They decided, this time, to spend their few hours before lunch in McCree’s room. Well, McCree decided. He’d received a text on his cellphone when they’d been seated at the table. It was Angela, letting him know he’d left his book in the infirmary in his haste to escape and that she’d placed it by his door. McCree had whistled absentmindedly and smiled as he read through the message. Awfully nice of her.

And so, they ended up standing in front of McCree’s door, solitary in the empty hallway of Floor F. The cowboy fished his room key out of the pocket of his blue jeans after scooping up the book sitting, as promised, in front of his door, slipping it into the lock and turning. The door opened easily if not a bit creakily.

The inside of McCree’s room was just how Hanzo had remembered it, warm and cozy and absolutely stacked with books. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, striding to the orange-blanketed bed to sit. The other man walked slowly to the bed, the book opened in his hands, pages flipping. He sat himself beside Hanzo, still checking over the book to make sure no harm had befallen it, a tiny smile gracing his face.

Then, as the cover dropped a little lower in McCree’s hand, a familiar name flashed at Hanzo, bad chickenscratch handwriting just barely there for a second before a page drifted over top of it. He recognized it immediately from when he’d been skimming the book to bring it to the infirmary.

Reyes.

Something clicked in his head. Was this Reyes the same Gabriel Reyes he’d seen on his mission to the supposed TALON base? 

Only one way to find out.

He cleared his throat, somewhat reluctant to breach the topic with Jesse, and began.

“Jesse?”

The man turned to him with a preoccupied “Hmm?”, mouth pressed in a content line, a tad hunched over from reading. Hanzo’s eyes searched his dull, fairly disinterested ones for any kind of recognition as he spoke the name.

“Who was Reyes to you?”  
He stiffened instantly. The book creaked in protest as McCree’s fingers pressed into it harder than he’d intended them to. He turned back to the worn countenance of the thing and set it in his lap, white knuckled, turning to the inside of the cover, thumb just barely grazing over the name as he sighed. Hanzo immediately regretted his decision and was just about to apologize for even asking when the werewolf half-growled, half-whispered, “You want the abridged version or the whole story?”

“If you do not mind,” Hanzo spoke quietly, gingerly scooting closer to hear the man better, “The whole story.”

Jesse leaned back against the headboard, eyes closed. “Guess I should start at the beginning, then.

“The Deadlock gang was my home ‘fore Reyes took me in. Heard of ‘em?” 

Hanzo nodded, and something about that made Jesse chuckle, but the laugh sounded strained.

“‘Course you have, you bein’ a Shimada and all. Good business partners. Well, there’s something you don’t know about them. They like to keep it on the down low, or they’d have hunters comin’ in from all around the world to try an’ grab some cheap glory. 

“All of them are werewolves. It’s one of the required initiations, actually. If you wanna get in, they knock you out and go to town. I don’t know the specifics of what they do, but I woke up with a real deep bite mark. It was human-sized, though. I reckon you can’t get turned if you get bit by the actual beast, otherwise you’d be growin’ fangs.”

Jesse ran his hand over the left side of his neck, fingers brushing over knotted, discolored scar tissue that only just barely stood out from the plethora of other scars mapped across his skin. Hanzo subconsciously swiped over his dull, human teeth with his tongue.

“It’s an intimidation tactic, really. Once you’re in, you can’t leave. They’ll tell everyone your secret and before long you’ll be on a mount above someone’s fireplace. 

“Deadlock gang got busted anyways and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’d already made a name for myself, and rather than gettin’ locked up, I was given the opportunity to join Blackwatch in Sweden. So, I took the offer. Reyes was my commanding officer there, mentored me, kept me out of trouble. It was all goin’ fine until the full moon came around.

“I begged him to take me out of the base, and I guess he saw somethin’ in my eyes because he lead me to his car and gestured at the passenger’s side. I got in, and he drove. I told him to go as far out into the forest as he could, and when the pain got too much for me to take, I told him to let me out. He helped me onto the dirt and I told him to just drive.

“So he did. He drove and drove, and he didn’t come back ‘til morning. Didn’t question me bein’ butt naked, covered in blood and dirt, waiting for him. Every full moon after that I didn’t even have to ask. He helped me cope, told me he wouldn’t tell anyone. From what I’d gathered from the other Blackwatch agents, it was the kindest he’d been to anyone.

“Then came the explosion. It happened while I was in the forest. I watched his taillights disappear and he…” 

Jesse trailed off, voice on the verge of breaking. Hanzo pressed a steady hand on his back as he gathered the strength to continue.

“He never came back. I had to walk for a near day along the road before I came to the smoldering remains of the base. I learned later that he’d gone down with the building and it… not gonna lie, it killed me for a while there.”

Hanzo took a deep breath, steadying himself for what was to come next. He knew he had to tell Jesse what he’d seen back on the mission. He had a right to know, didn’t he? He just knew it wouldn’t be easy to hear.

“Jesse?” he cleared his throat, voice somewhat shaky.

“Yeah?” the man answered, leaning his head back against the headboard, his eyes trained on the ceiling.

“I- I was on a mission to a supposed TALON base a few days ago, and - well - I saw him.”


	21. Needles Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! Sorry this one took longer than most, uni's a bitch

At first, Jesse had thought Hanzo was lying. He turned to the wary man, anger evident in his narrowed eyes, lips curled into a snarl. “Ain’t no thing to joke about, Hanzo. That man was like a father to me.” His words dripped with venom.

Shaking his head ever so slightly from left to right, the Shimada spoke quietly, cautiously. “I would not lie to you about this. I know,” he whispered, growing distant for the smallest second before regaining his composure, “what it is like to lose.” He watched Jesse with concern in his eyes, a gentle hand on his back to steady him.

His hand was shaken off as Jesse pushed himself off the bed defiantly, displeasure marring his voice. “No, no. He died in that explosion. He’s gone, you’re lying,” he snapped, staring the archer down. 

This was the worst possible situation. It left McCree unable to come to terms with the survival of his mentor, and ripped a rift between the archer and the cowboy. They’d only just in the past few weeks learned to accept each other as friends, and if Hanzo could not fix it, all of that would slip away and they’d have to revert back to their self-sufficient lifestyles. Neither wanted that to happen.

Hanzo wracked his brain, heart sinking, searching for some way to get it through to Jesse that he was telling the truth, that he wasn’t just trying to hurt him. Out of the corner of his eye the dim orange of the holovid snagged his attention, and he instantly knew what to do.

“Here, I can prove it,” Hanzo hurried, shooting off the bed with lightning speed. “Follow me.” He could only hope that his plan would work. 

They sped down the stairwells to Hanzo’s room, McCree muttering obscenities all the way down. The archer knew they were directed at him, and inwardly winced with each colorful term mouthed his way. Hopefully he could remedy that, and maybe bring the cowboy some peace of mind, as he would not have to question whether his boss had lived or died.

In retrospect, it was a foolish thought.

At first, Jesse was just angry, slamming the door of Hanzo’s room shut behind him as he followed the archer in, then stalking to his side and crossing his arms in indignation, a scowl spread across his time-hardened features. As time passed he grew more fidgety, fingers digging into the skin of his arm, feet tapping, troubled by the thought that Hanzo was going to legitimately try and prove to him that Gabe was still alive. That Hanzo thought that he could be right in his outrageous claim was disturbing to him.

Hanzo’s lithe fingers raced across the holovid, sifting through the enormous amount of security surrounding the subject of his search. Overwatch had gone to great lengths to prevent people who weren’t supposed to access their information from doing just that, and fortunately, Hanzo was one of those allowed. Each individual agent had the ability to create and edit mission reports on the holovids, and these reports were added to mission databases as soon as they were approved. Hanzo had created a mission report detailing his encounter with the decaying man in the concrete building the day of, including a description. 

He waded through the final layers of password-protected pages and was at last able to expand and display the mission report, scrolling through it until he reached the section recounting his experience. In a quiet, reserved voice, he murmured “Here,” nodding his head towards the holovid, eyes trained on the floor.

McCree stepped in front of the holovid console, arms still crossed, and squinted, lips parted as his eyes darted from one line of text to the next. The look of anger on his face shifted to one of shock as he read through it all; the oh-so-familiar description of appearance, the decay, the name. Oh, how his eyes stuck on the name.

His eyes went back to the first line as he read the paragraph over and over, searching for anything to tell him that, even though Hanzo’s mission report had been approved, it was false. He hoped, he prayed, that this wasn’t happening. He wasn’t ready to deal with the grief all over again. But through all this, he could not deny the truth in the threatening orange glow of the holovid.

Jesse McCree was a lot of things, but he was no fool.

Hanzo, face full of worry, leaned forward a bit. “Are- are you alright?” he probed cautiously, reaching out tentatively to steady the shaking man, but Jesse only turned away from him and started towards the door, hands clenched into fists. White knuckled and unsteady, he slammed it open and turned the corner out of sight beyond the door frame, leaving a stunned Hanzo with his hand still half-reaching for empty space. The archer snapped out of his daze and dashed to the open door, then into the empty hallway. He called out for the cowboy, but was met with only silence; McCree was gone.

Thinking it best to leave the man to his own devices, Hanzo stepped back into his room, but left the door open in case McCree decided to come back. He moved to the bed and flopped down onto it, a shaky sigh escaping from his lips. The look in Jesse’s eyes when he realized the archer was not lying was burned into his memory. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it on his eyelids. How must it feel, knowing someone you’ve mourned for years is alive and well? Well, maybe not so well, he thought. Whatever Gabriel Reyes was, he certainly wasn’t well.

…

Days passed, and Hanzo had not seen the saddened cowboy anywhere. Of course, it’s not like he had been looking for him; he figured it would be best to let the man seek help on his own accord, if he desired it. That’s not to say that the Shimada hadn’t noticed the emptiness of the hallways, or the cold, empty space beside him in the cafeteria, or the uncharacteristic silence of his room. It’s certainly not to say he hadn’t missed it, the constant companionship. The way his heart panged as he turned to speak to someone who he realized wasn’t there surprised him; how quickly he had gotten used to the company of the larger man, how quickly he had shed his walls and his old habits of reclusiveness. Two months ago he would have considered it weakness.

Hanzo had gone through the food line, had seated himself, and was picking at some eggs, generally disinterested, when he felt the table lean a little and creak, a familiar tinny voice filling the air.

Lena leaned casually against the grey slab of the table, skinny fingers steadying herself on the cold surface. “Hey Hanners, what’s up? You seem kinda-”

“Can you not just accept him?” he seethed suddenly, glaring daggers down into his drink, both his hands clasped tightly around the cup. 

“I’m- ah, I’m sorry, what..?” she hesitated, face skewed in confusion.

Hanzo turned to look her in the eye, and she withered under his damning gaze. The Shimada was practiced in the art of stoicity, and dredged it all up from his past, trying his hardest to, and as was usual, succeeding, to be intimidating. His voice was cold. “Jesse. I know he has killed, but have we all not done so? Surely, it is understandable. He was not in control of himself.” 

Lena grew very, very uncomfortable, eyes shifting to the side, mouth pressed into a tight line. Her words were slow and stuttered. 

“Hanzo, that was one of our own. Yeah, we kill, but it’s never our own agents.”

Hanzo stood, pushing his chair back as he did, and gently, calmly placed his glass on the table with a clink. Somehow, that was more terrifying than any amount of yelling or screaming could ever be. Standing straight up, he was a good four inches taller than her, and it gave him the edge he needed to make her wilt under his burning eyes. Jesse’s words echoed in his mind. 

“That thing is _not_ him.”

With that, Hanzo turned to leave, a stunned Lena and a half-empty cup of orange juice slowly being absorbed back into the crowd, which had parted trying to avoid the icy encounter. His footsteps echoed in the sudden silence of the vast room, whispers only penetrating the stillness after the heavy metal doors had clicked shut behind the stormy man, small voices of objection slipping from the cafeteria and into the hallway. He grunted in distaste, wishing with all his heart McCree could just… be accepted. _It wasn’t even his fault,_ he thought.

…

As more and more days passed and Hanzo did not see McCree, he grew more antsy. The possibility that the cowboy could harbor resentment against him for revealing the truth kept him from going up to his room to check on him, but he found himself still looking for a reason to.

A week and a half after he’d last seen the man, he found that reason.

Hanzo’s phone buzzed on his sidetable, jerking him from slumber. He’d stopped checking the time before he fell asleep, waking to eat and check his holovid for assigned missions. Without the company of McCree, there wasn’t really a reason to leave his room.

Shifting across his bed so that he was closer to the phone, he reached out and grabbed it, swiping his thumb across it to unlock it as he did. His messages opened automatically, “Dr. Ziegler” displayed in blinding white across the top of the screen. The message read as follows:

**ZIEGLER**   
_Hanzo, could you check on Jesse? I would, but I am a little bogged down right now at the infirmary. It’s going to be a full moon tonight, I want to make sure he gets there safely. I think he’s in his room. Thanks_

Hanzo shot back a text letting her know he’d check up on him, setting his phone back down on the table with a sigh, berating himself. What did he have to be nervous about? He could handle whatever McCree could throw at him. He’d already beat himself up enough about the night he left.

…

His fist hovered over the door, hesitant. Though Hanzo hadn’t been too worried about what McCree might think of him now that he had hurt him, it was all crashing down on him as he stood before the room in the form of a terribly fast heartbeat and shaking hands. He knocked, only once.

There was no answer. He knocked once more, worry shifting from the subject of McCree’s reaction to just McCree. Was he alright? Was he even in his room?

Hanzo tried the doorknob, and it was unlocked, so he pushed it open. It would seem that, as he stepped into the room, that his latter assumption was correct. He began to speak, a gruff “McCree?” escaping his throat, before he was quite literally stopped in his tracks after turning a corner. His foot hit something soft, and he looked down.

The cowboy lay haphazardly on the floor, a bottle (probably filched from the easily-intimidated bartender) loosely gripped in his right hand, his head lolling to one side, eyes hooded. He looked absolutely tanked, his face flushed and eyes unfocused. 

“Hanzo,” he whispered, no meaning behind his words, a mere remnant of consciousness. “Hanzo…”

Jesse’s metallic hand, the one without the bottle, twitched, reaching for Hanzo’s face as the Shimada stooped down, falling to one knee. 

“It’s time to get up, Jesse. We have to go, now.” It was getting late.

Hanzo ignored the tiny whispers of his name and slipped his hands under the man, trying and mostly failing to bring him to his feet. He resigned to heaving McCree up onto the bed and then over his shoulder, which he immediately realized was a lot easier than it should have been.

The man was heavy over his shoulder as he carried him through the doorway, stiffening as he felt something poke into his shoulder through the cowboy’s shirt. Ribs, he realized with a start. He was skinny. Too skinny.

…

McCree groaned. He was vaguely aware of being lifted, but mostly, he was just dizzy. He could barely register anything as he was carried, alcohol-addled mind too busy feeding him memories he’d tried so hard to suppress to feel the hard corner of Hanzo’s shoulder pressing into him or the immense hunger wracking his body. He’d gone too long without eating, too long without satisfying the enormous metabolism that came with having to consume enough to feed two.

_Pain was the first thing he registered. The twisting, cracking, snapping of bones. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t hear anything; the sound was deafening. God, what was that sound? He realized the sound, that ear-piercing, goosebump-raising shriek was his own, mouth spread impossibly wide in a terrified scream._

_The second thing he registered was the blood. It stained everything in the long hallway, splashed across the walls and gathering in the jagged grooves of the shredded carpet. It dyed his hands in violent reds and oranges, and when he brought it to his mouth, it came back darkened with crimson even more so._

_He whipped his head around fiercely, mind not completely there, black-stained muzzle still flattening itself back into his face. His eyes locked onto the body laying in the middle of the hallway behind him and an animalistic pang of rage shook him. It was so mangled he wasn’t sure it could even be called a body, as now it more resembled just… remains._

_Another pang rocked him and he tried to suppress it as the door at the front end of the hallway slammed open; the beast was not done yet._

_Angela, holding a rifle trained squarely at him, stood on the other side of the door, flanked by two men also holding guns. He had no control over his limbs. They propelled him forward, a strangled, unearthly growl forcing up from his throat, breaking the silence as a look of horror painted itself across Angela’s face. She did not hesitate._

_A flurry of tranquilizer darts buried themselves in his skin, the sizeable needles sticking inches in, blinding him in agonizing pain. He was oversensitive in this state, and everything felt like bullets in his flesh. His legs and arms collapsed underneath him, driving many of the darts deeper as his front hit the ground. He screamed, but the sound soon faded as he slipped into the sweet embrace of tranquilizer-induced unconsciousness._

…

It was hell trying to get the larger man up the stairs, even in his emaciated state, and even though it was only one flight. His boots kept dragging on the steps, and he slid so easily from Hanzo’s shoulders. This did nothing to quell the Shimada’s determination, however, and he made it to Floor G’s locked door eventually, albeit with many grunts of exertion mixing with the soft, incoherent whispers slipping past Jesse’s lips.

He laid Jesse on the ground and snatched the key and barcode from around his neck, copying what he’d seen the werewolf do the first time he was on Floor G. The door beeped and slid open.

Hanzo once again lifted Jesse, sliding his hands under the larger man’s arms and dragging him inside the dark room, where he was faced with yet another challenge.

How was he going to carry him up the ladder?

The only way was to attempt to carry the man, so he did just that, lifting him up by his armpits and slinging him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Hanzo slowly shuffled to the ladder, the weight of Jesse on him making the task much more difficult, and grabbed the ladder with his unoccupied hand. He heaved himself up, gradually, one rung at a time, huffing as he went.

He hadn’t even reached the halfway point when he heard a small groan of pain emanate from the werewolf over his shoulder, and a pang of nervousness shot through him. He quickened his pace, trying to reach the top before McCree transformed, but soon felt the bones of the man shifting , wincing as he heard little cracks as they rearranged themselves. Although he tried to keep going, tried to get the man to the top of the ladder, strained with all his might, the weight growing as McCree gained mass caused the werewolf to slip right off of his back and fall to the ground. He’d also started screaming that horrible, gut-wrenching scream, the echoing qualities of Floor G making it all the more deafening.

Hanzo cast a terrified glance down, his lips pulled down in a weak, troubled frown. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, even though McCree could neither hear him nor respond, and shot up the ladder and through the hatch, leaving the werewolf on the floor.

…

The beast that McCree had transformed into was too big to fit through both the hatch and the door leading to the stairwell, so Hanzo left the hatch lid open and sat near it, watching. He wasn’t sure what made him want to watch the thing, if he even did want to watch it. He guessed it must have been one of those car crash situations, where you just can’t seem to look away.

The thing was just as disgusting and vicious as he had remembered it, flinging itself against the walls, dragging the contents of the storage crates that had been on the far side of the room around and ripping them to shreds, driving its claws into the floor and the walls, leaving gouges and holes everywhere. It did, for about an hour, circle around directly below Hanzo, staring up at him with those deadpan, off eyes, tarlike liquid rolling down its exposed, rubbery gums in beads with each ragged breath it drew. Hanzo had looked away then, fear spiking in him even though he knew it couldn’t reach him.

Eventually, as the dim orange light of the early sunrise graced the tops of the trees around him, Hanzo heard the screaming start again. The beast had run off to some corner in the room he couldn’t see from the hatch, staying silent for a long time, before it started shrieking and howling and whimpering all at once, and the echo of splintering bones reached him. 

It kept up for a long time, and Hanzo figured it was safe to go down the ladder once it was silent in the room once more. He swung himself through the opening, climbing down quickly, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to reach the cowboy. Whipping his head around in every direction, the Shimada tried to and finally did spot the man in the corner furthest from him. He ran to him, almost falling into a kneeling position next to Jesse. His expression grew soft as he pulled him into his arms, the weak man reaching up shakily to grasp at Hanzo’s shirt. 

They sat like that for a long while, Hanzo gently brushing the matted, tangled hair away from Jesse’s face with a finger, wiping the tears from his cheeks, feeling the quiet, desperate heaving of his chest underneath him. Neither spoke; neither needed to, and even when Jesse’s breathing grew more regular, even when the tears ceased falling, even when his grip loosened, Hanzo stayed.


	22. Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, I didn't think I'd ever finish this chapter. Sorry for taking so long

The stinging scent of hospital antiseptic hit Hanzo as he pushed open the infirmary doors, stepping through them hastily, a severely disheveled McCree following close behind. It was a mere hour after the werewolf had become human again, a mere hour after Jesse had clung to Hanzo in a death grip, sobbing, raw. Hanzo had helped the broken man up, offering a steady hand, and they had ambled all the way down to the infirmary without saying a word. Jesse hadn’t even met his eyes as they descended, keeping his hands firmly pressed into his pockets, lidded eyes glued to the floor.

Angela, flitting around to the bedsides of too many patients, didn’t look up when they entered. She was engrossed in her work, administering medicine, setting up IV drips, fiddling with the monitory machines that held vigil for the injured. She was talking a patient through a future operation, waving her hands as she verbally demonstrated the procedure, when she perked up, almost like she could feel she was being watched. 

The doctor turned slowly, striking blue eyes darting in tiny movements around the room until she caught the gaze of the Shimada. A prim smile graced her face as she held up one slender finger, turning back to the patient to finish her monologue before striding over to the pair. Strands of hair that had escaped from her bun floated around her face, golden, highlighted by the white, flickering lights above her.

Hanzo was easily able to school his expression into one of indifference, masking the heavy blanket of nervousness spreading over him, but McCree, seeing as he was the one to tear apart the storage crates and gouge the walls, was much less controlled in his countenance. The anxious shine in his eyes and the small line he’d pressed his lips into was not lost on the doctor, whose smile fell as she searched their faces. 

“What happened?” she questioned nervously, looking up at the two men.

Hanzo was the one to speak up, after a pause that told him Jesse was clearly not ready to. He took a deep breath, parting his lips only just barely as he exhaled, eyes flitting to Jesse’s before he answered.

“We kind of… made a mess, on Floor G.”

Angela locked eyes with Hanzo. “We?” she asked softly, a deep, knowing gaze betraying her doubtfulness. 

“Well,” Hanzo spoke thinly, voice low so that no one else in the infirmary could hear. “Jesse made a mess. But I am at fault as well, I could not bring him up the ladder fast enou-” 

“It’s alright,” Angela interrupted him, waving away his concern with an uninterested gesture. “We don’t use that floor anymore. It’s mostly just for overflow of supplies, but we haven’t had a surplus of anything in years. There’s just empty crates there now.”

…

The two men sat side by side in the mostly empty cafeteria in the very early morning, the shorter sitting up rigidly in the cold plastic chair beneath him, pushed back from the table. The ankle of his right leg rested on the knee of his left, crossed perpendicular to each other. The taller man was hunched over a plain ham sandwich that he clamped in both hands, chatting idly as he ate. His hat was tipped just so over his head that he didn’t see her when she approached, but Hanzo was sure that he heard her.

Lena approached the table, both hands clasped tightly on a food tray, thumbs rubbing nervous circles into the thin plastic. One side of her mouth quirked up, dragging her whole face into an anxious visage. Hanzo eyed her warily, one eyebrow raised, lips pulled into a confused frown. Usually, the social butterflies like Lena strayed far from the pair, occupying themselves with affairs much less strenuous than trying to befriend the two. He briefly wondered if she needed his help, or maybe something had gone wrong, but quickly ruled it out as there was nothing Hanzo could help her with that others in the room couldn’t.

After catching Hanzo’s eye and smiling nervously, she spoke up, voice an empty, tinny echo of her usual chipper tone. 

“Hey, Hanzo… guys. Mind if I eat with you?”

The Shimada gestured openly at the empty chair next to him, an amused but apprehensive look playing across his face as he watched her set the tray down on the table, hesitant as she pulled out the chair, gingerly placing herself in it in such a way that she seemed completely boxed up, elbows on the table and feet flat on the ground. She jabbed at her macaroni repetitively with her fork, seemingly more interested in stirring it than in talking to them, until Hanzo dug his elbow sharply into her side.

Lena stiffened, staring at him with confusion in her eyes, until Hanzo jerked his head towards McCree, who was nibbling slowly, absentmindedly, on his ham sandwich, empty gaze directed in the general span of the wall opposite them. He wasn’t paying attention at all (or at least trying to look like he wasn’t).

The girl leaned over the table ever so slightly, just so that she could see past the bulk that was Hanzo, moving her hand in a small, hesitant wave to get his attention. Hanzo watched the interaction between the two, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms indignantly as McCree turned slowly, metaphorical hackles raising, staring at Lena from under the brim of his hat before grunting nervously and turning back to his food.

This time, it was the cowboy’s turn to get elbowed in the side, McCree emitting a small “oof” of surprise. Hanzo stared him down, raising his eyebrows in an almost chiding way, eyes flicking to Lena and back meaningfully. _Talk to her._

Jesse looked back to the pilot, his eyes not meeting hers, instead, choosing to focus just to the left of her head. Hesitation was evident in the way he clasped his hands together on the table, thumbs rubbing over each other roughly. He cleared his throat quietly, gaze temporarily flicking to the floor, then back up to meet hers.

His voice was rough and nervous, little stutters peppered randomly throughout it. “Uh, hey. How’ve… how’ve you been?” Even though the sentence was brief and quiet, his teeth still flashed through his parted lips as he spoke, and it was obvious that Lena was staring. Her wide eyes trailed down to his mouth, then up to meet Hanzo’s own, almost as if asking, You really want me to do this? But Hanzo’s sharp gaze shut her up immediately. McCree, who had been watching the silent exchange, looked down at his hands uncomfortably, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

Hanzo sent an insistent stare Lena’s way and she snapped out of her daze, trying to initiate conversation again. “I’ve been alright, I mean, same old, same old. Not much to do here, y’know? How are you?” 

Jesse seemed to loosen up a bit, knowing that she wasn’t going to run away from him. “Good as I can be, I guess.”

What a refreshing sight that was, to Hanzo: the pair leaning past the archer to talk to one another, Lena falling back on her habit of babbling about anything and everything, McCree’s head propped up by his hand on his cheek, a tiny, fragile smile gracing his lips. They’d fallen into an easy, if not wary rhythm, Hanzo not really sure if each was enjoying the other’s company, but sure that this was a step in the right direction.

The two spoke for near half an hour, Hanzo sitting between them completely silent, arms crossed, a buffer welcomed by both. He was happy to play the role if it meant getting the finicky werewolf to socialize. Lena did excuse herself from the table eventually, reasoning with them that she needed to sleep, as she had a mission tomorrow. “Sorry, lads, but I’ve gotta fly,” she had tittered, Hanzo noted with a contented sigh that she seemed much less nervous than when she had come to the table, as she slipped her hands under her food tray, zipping away to empty it into the trash and then to exit the cafeteria.

Hanzo turned back from watching Lena leave, meeting eyes with a very confused but still smiling McCree.

“What was that all about?” he asked, gazing in the general direction of the doors she had left through. Hanzo swore he could see a knowing glint in the man’s eyes.

“I guess she just decided to-” the Shimada started halfheartedly, before the werewolf interrupted him.

“C’mon Hanzo, you know good n’ well she wouldn’t just up and decide to talk to me without some proddin’,” he scoffed, though he couldn’t help the corner of his mouth tugging up happily. He took a sip of his drink before continuing. “What didya do?” 

Hanzo looked to the side, not meeting his eyes, but not being able to stop Jesse’s infectious grin from crossing his face. His eyes flickered back up as he tucked a stray piece of silky hair behind his ear. “Well, I may have spoken to her…”

A hearty punch on the shoulder made him laugh and rub his arm in jest, watching as the grin spread farther across the cowboy’s face. He’d never seen him so… hopeful. It was something he’d hope he would see again and again. 

But then, it faded.

The smile fell from Jesse’s face and his shoulders drooped. He seemed so vulnerable. Meeting Hanzo’s eyes nervously, he started to whisper.

“What if she won’t want to come back? What if she is more scared of me now? Hanzo, _what if-_ ”

Hanzo interrupted him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Jesse, Jesse, quiet. It will be alright. I promise you, it will be okay.” Jesse’s smile returned, though it did waver. He pushed his chair back with a contented sigh, Hanzo standing with him. 

“Well, y’know what they say, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

The Shimada turned to him as they walked, face screwed up in confusion. “No???”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” McCree replied, also confused.

“I have never heard anybody say that, ever.”

McCree laughed, then sighed. “Christ on a cracker, you’re hopeless. When you’re gifted a horse, it’s rude to-”

Even more confused: “Christ on a cracker???”

The cowboy pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, delightfully exasperated. “Good _Lord._ ”

…

By the time they had reached the climax of their argument over supposed old South sayings, they’d reached Hanzo’s door. McCree tipped his hat up, leaning against the wall. After a pause, he spoke. “Well, guess this is goodnight, then.”

Something in Hanzo urged him to call out to Jesse as he was walking away, take his hand, anything to get him to stop walking away.

But, because Hanzo Shimada was not a socially adept man,  
He did not.

Jesse stopped, one foot on the first step leading up to his own room, and turned his torso around so that he was able to meet Hanzo’s eyes. 

“Thanks. For tonight.”

And then, he was gone.

…

Hanzo had not long been in his own room before he noticed his holovid blinking an urgent red in the corner. He shuffled over to it, more than ready to get under the covers and fall asleep, and opened the message. It was a mission alert.

_Hanzo Shimada,_

_Please report to the aircraft hanger by 6:00 PM tomorrow for a large team assignment. You will board the aircraft at 7:00 PM sharp after briefing, so please do not be late._

_Thank you,  
Athena_

Groaning, he checked the time. 7:31 AM. The two had stayed up all night (obviously) and had spent a small fraction of the daylight hours talking to Angela and Tracer. 

_Time to sleep_ , he thought, as he detached his legs, placing them with a metallic clink on the bedside floor, and slipping under the covers. The warm embrace of unconsciousness took him in seconds.

…

The night was not one of peace. Images of splattered blood and torn flesh flashed behind closed eyelids, the dark confines of the Shimada Castle surrounding him.

Hanzo wrenched his gaze from the dripping sword in his hand to the body on the floor. It was looking at him- staring daggers at him with hollow, empty eyes as blood poured from its slashed stomach. The sword clattered to the floor and Hanzo tried to run, but he seemed to be stuck in place, locked in by the damning gaze of the dead man. Not a word passed between them as the blood on the floor rose inches, climbing up his calves, bubbling over the corpse completely as it flooded the room, reaching his chest oh god it was everywhere it was _everywhere_ -

Hanzo bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat, breathing hard. He threw the covers off, stumbling blindly to the bathroom, just barely managing to throw the door open and fall to the tile floor before he threw up into the toilet bowl, retching as bile and chunks of his last meal splattered the porcelain. He braced himself as he heaved for several more minutes, vomiting until there was nothing left to expel.

He stayed there for an hour, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, body occasionally wracked with violent coughing fits, head in hands, tears streaming down his cheeks. The silent sobs shook him as hard as the coughing fits did. There would be no more sleep this day.

…

Stormbow held at his side, the archer pushed through the hangar doors. He was early. Only Lena and an unknown briefer stood by the humming ship, chatting quietly as they waited. Lena caught Hanzo’s eye and waved him over, smiling cheerfully, but her grin faded as he strode closer. He knew she could see the red rimming his eyes in stark contrast to his paler-than-usual face, knew she could see the frown that was a little bit too gaunt to be his typical indifference, but he didn’t care. Not today.

As he neared, Lena piped up. “Hanzo, you ok..?”

The Shimada waved away her question and stood beside the two, watching the hangar door as more people started to pour in. They just seemed to keep coming, ten, then twenty, then thirty. He wondered how many agents were going on the mission and of what importance it was to have fostered this much manpower. There were some familiar faces in the crowd: Symmetra, Pharah, many he’d spotted milling about in the cafeteria, even Angela eventually made her way to the growing throng of agents quietly chatting by the huge airship.

And then came Jesse.

He didn’t see Hanzo at first, which the archer was perfectly fine with, given his current state. He was content, instead, to observe.

Jesse had a slight pep in his step that hadn’t been there the days prior, a tiny change in posture Hanzo was sure only he would notice. His hands were out of his pockets, one gripping his hat to his chest and the other running his hands through his hair as he scanned the crowd, quickly approaching; as soon as he caught sight of Hanzo his expression shifted. First, from his always-present disinterest to a wide grin that pushed the corners of his eyes into crow’s feet, then to worry as he caught what Lena had.

Speeding up, he waited until he was within whispering range before asking, concerned, “Everythin’ alright?” A gentle hand brushed his shoulder, an attempt at comfort.

Hanzo shrugged the hand off, just wanting to be alone, just wanting to be anywhere but here. “Fine,” he barked, turning to the mission briefer as the group quieted in anticipation.

“Alright everyone, listen up, listen up,” she boomed, voice echoing in the vast hangar. The ship hummed impatiently behind her, crew already on board and getting everything prepared. “Few of ya went on a scouting mission about two weeks back, to inspect a suspected TALON base.”

Hanzo nodded to himself; he remembered.

“Turns out we had to leave early because someone- or something- was already there. We’ve been monitoring it since; some TALON agents have been making trips back and forth. We think they’re moving information, files maybe, and we’re convinced a bunch of em’ are showing up today. So, we’re gonna try and take ‘em out.”

She started grouping people up, explaining to them what they were to do, where they were supposed to go, etc. Hanzo was grouped with McCree, Tracer, and Symmetra. Tracer was to scout ahead, they were told, with McCree and himself being the firepower, and Symmetra was added firepower as well as a quick getaway if they needed it. The group was going to enter the building farthest from the ship, being the most mobile, and take out anyone they saw as well as send any found files through the teleporter. The other groups were dictated to the other buildings.

“Alright, let’s move,” the mission briefer spoke, the airship technicians directing everyone to their seats after they climbed the ramp up to the giant fuselage interior. The air buzzed with anxious conversation and the rattling engine of the craft as the ramp closed and it rumbled to life. Hanzo was squished between two people he didn’t know and was not enjoying it one bit, as the scowl on his face betrayed. McCree sat across from him, scowl echoed on his own face as he gazed blankly at the wall above Hanzo’s head, swaying with every rumble of the craft as it rose out of the hangar. The aircraft, of course, had no windows, as that would’ve given away the position of the base, and Overwatch was not one to take risks, but all could tell it was picking up speed by the whine of the engine and the rattling of the fuselage.

Even at top speed, it still took upwards of two hours to reach the destination, given the size of the ship and its speed cap. Mostly, the team was quiet, riddled with the anticipation of what was to come. As far as they knew, it was the largest mission they’d ever been a part of, post-recall. Sparse whispers dotted the silence, teammates jokingly saying their farewells to each other, giggling while reciting their wills. The whispers ceased, however, when the ship landed.

They filed out of the ship and into the dark night, teammates bumping into each other as they descended the ramp. Hanzo inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, the cool air filling his lungs. It felt calming to be out of the musty metal facility, felt familiar to be in the cover of darkness with his bow held at his side. His fingers closed around the cool metal possessively.

With a heavy sigh, Hanzo joined McCree and Symmetra. Tracer had already zipped off towards the building, turning around every once in awhile and giving them a thumbs up to show the path was clear. Slowly, they made their way to the building farthest from the ship, using anything they could for cover. The only sound was the gravel crunching under their light footsteps, the only light, the waning moon above and the faint glow of Tracer’s chronal accelerator in the distance. They finally reached the building, each slipping in one after the other through an open window, and darted through the halls as directed by Tracer. 

She found the room quickly, as she’d been zipping in and out of doorways while waiting for the group to catch up. Boxes of papers were stacked precariously against the wall, very obviously recently rooted through. Printed documents were strewn randomly on the concrete floor and piled up in small stacks in the corners of the room.

Symmetra set up a teleporter as quickly as humanly possible, linking it to the other already set up in the cargo bay of the ship. Spurred by the fear of discovery, the other three started to grab boxes and throw them through the teleporter. It was quite a sight to behold: they were wading through a literal sea of paper as it spilled out of the boxes in their haste. Tracer began scooping up all of the paper on the floor and trying to hold it in her arms long enough to shove it in the general direction of the teleporter. Symmetra actually started giggling. It was a miracle they were having any fun at all.

That is, they were having fun, until they began to hear footsteps ringing through the hallway.

All four immediately stopped, like deer frozen in the headlights. McCree pulled his hand back from the box he was going to pick up and placed it on Peacekeeper warily. Hanzo quietly, slowly set down his box and picked up Stormbow, nocking an arrow. It seemed to them that the silence was deafening. The footsteps had stopped. Nervous anticipation settled like a thick blanket on the room, the paranoia of just minutes before intensifying tenfold.

Although it was probably only a few seconds, to Hanzo, it seemed like hours before the footsteps broke the silence again. This time, they were running away. 

The archer, bow drawn tight, darted out of the room and into the hallway. A fairly generic-looking man dressed in black had almost rounded the corner, scrambling to get around the wall and no doubt warn his friends in TALON about the intruders.

Hanzo raised the bow, breathing in deeply. He pulled the arrow back further, back to his cheek. No breath stirred in his lungs, no thought interrupted his concentration.

He loosed the arrow, feeling his arm rock back just as it buried itself into the back of the man’s skull. One down. 

The archer dashed to the body and turned it over, scrutinizing it. There, in its ear, a sleek black communication device sat. He ripped it out and held it to his own ear.

There was yelling on the other side, a gruff voice calling what must have been the TALON agent’s name, over and over. Hanzo knew that when they didn’t get a reply, they’d come looking.

“We need to hurry,” he whispered frantically once he had rushed back into the room, shoving boxes of paper through the teleporter at top speed, the three others following suit with worry written across their features. It was going to take a while to get it all, as from what they would see, it was a physical backup of some kind of database, and there sure was a lot of it.

Halfway through the pile, Tracer peeked out from behind the doorway and immediately zipped back into the room. “We’ve got company, loves!” she yelled to the group as about ten TALON agents that had been trying to be stealthy threw caution to the wind and stormed them.

Suddenly, the little room that had been so quiet just seconds before erupted into gunfire and screams.

Hanzo loosed arrow after arrow into torsos, heads, legs, whatever he could hit. Bullets rained down around him, blowing chunks out of the concrete wall behind him as he dropped into a crouch to dodge them, dust filling the air. One grazed the side of his stomach and he let out a strangled yelp at the pain shooting through him, but he managed to keep shooting. McCree fanned the hammer of his gun, dropping two agents before they could even raise their own guns. Two stray bullets buried themselves in his metal arm, but he had no time to worry about that right now. 

Tracer downed two easily, zipping around them like it was nothing, her small guns pumping both agents full of lead. Hanzo swore he could just hear her murmur an apology over the gunfire. Symmetra managed a kill while also trying to construct a shield to protect the teleporter and her teammates. In the end, it paid off, saving them from death many times over.

Sweaty and shaking from the exertion, Hanzo nodded in thanks to Symmetra, wiping off his forehead with a sleeved forearm, breathing heavily. Tracer stepped into the hallway.

“Doesn’t look like anyone else is coming. Let’s get the hell out of here. McCree, warn the rest of our agents, wouldya?” she asked as she slipped through the teleporter, disappearing in a flash of blue light.

McCree nodded, pressing a finger of his flesh arm to his ear and speaking softly into it. Behind him, Symmetra waved goodbye and stepped through it as well. 

Knowing he’d been hit and might need medical attention, Hanzo started towards the teleporter. The device had always intrigued him. He’d used it once before, and it was honestly so disorienting and confusing that he couldn’t help but wonder what made it tick. That curiosity, however, did not stop him from disliking the unpleasant feeling of being in two places at once, even only if for a split second. And so, he hesitated.

That hesitation nearly cost him his life.

There was no warning before it happened, no telltale footsteps, no whispers. Hanzo turned his head from the teleporter just in time to see the scene laid out in front of him like a horrifying diorama, a freeze-frame full of danger. The being materialized in a swirling cloud of black smoke in a matter of seconds, double shotguns already drawn and pointed straight at McCree’s head. McCree stood, shocked, with his peacekeeper held loosely in his good hand, pointed down at the concrete floor haphazardly, eyes drawn wide and lips parted. Despite not being able to see its face, the cowboy knew exactly who it was. He knew it from the posture, the weapons, the horrid gurgling laugh. He knew it from Hanzo’s description. 

Time passed in heartbeats. Hanzo lifted his bow, cursing himself for not being able to nock the arrow fast enough. Everything felt like it was in slow motion. He pulled it back, fire in his eyes and lightning in his arm, shouting those ancient words until his throat was raw. The being turned to him.

And vanished.

The room was filled with a blinding blue glow and an earth-shattering roar as he felt the dragons course through him, surging right through the dispersing mass of smoke where Reyes had been just seconds prior. He knelt and covered his ears with both hands as the screaming roar of the dragons became too much for his ears, amplified by the small confines of the room. The anger and the strength that had so fueled him to release them fled with the beasts, leaving him weak and on his knees. The concrete wall across from him crumbled, pulverized by the spirits’ gnashing teeth.

He was so weak, in fact, that he only barely registered being pulled off the ground and through the flickering teleporter, rough hands gripping his arm tightly, as if holding on for dear life.


	23. Warmth

Releasing the dragons always had taken near every last bit of strength that he had out of Hanzo. He didn’t understand the science behind keeping spirits cooped up in his body and honestly didn’t want to understand, but he did understand that calling upon them was like releasing a coiled spring. It happened in the blink of an eye: one moment he was ready to fight, crackling with energy, loosing arrows between the eyes of every opponent thrown his way, and the next moment he was on the floor, passed out.

This time he hadn’t entirely lost consciousness, but he certainly was close. Hanzo was just barely aware of the strong grip on his wrist, the sudden change in temperature as he was pulled close to McCree’s chest and the both of them fell backwards through the teleporter, landing hard in the airship’s cargo bay amidst uneven piles of classified documents. The cowboy took the brunt of the fall, as he’d twisted around last second so that the incapacitated Hanzo fell onto his (considerably softer) lap instead of onto the hard metal floor. The archer’s head just lolled back, breathing labored as his body struggled to return his heart rate to its resting state. He was grasping slightly at McCree’s serape, trying to gain some purchase on it to help himself stand up, but the more capable man was having none of it. He slipped one arm under Hanzo’s thighs and the other under his shoulders, carrying him through the open door leading into the passenger section of the fuselage. 

Hanzo was vaguely aware of all this up until the point that he was leaned against the bench, sitting on the floor, Jesse’s arms gripping his shoulders softly to keep him in place in the crowded space. He finally passed out, lulled by the gentle rocking of the ship taking off and the incredible exhaustion that had come over him.

The first thing he registered when he woke was the aching. It was another constant, something he could always rely on: the dull pain throbbing throughout his entire body, making him feel like he’d run miles and miles the day before. It made muscles hurt he didn’t even know he had. 

Hanzo groaned quietly, chest rising as he sucked in a breath and held it, lungs burning. Everything hurt. 

Slowly, as his mind came back to him, he opened his eyes, blinding hospital lights forcing him to squint again immediately. Sitting up was a definite effort, the archer finding himself groaning in frustration as the muscles he’d used sent a shock throughout his body and he stopped moving. His tattooed arm felt like it was on fire, and he reached with his other one to rub it. Sparks of electricity danced across his fingers as he did (or at least, it felt like it to him).

That familiar rough drawl to his right made him open his eyes fully, however heavy his eyelids felt at the moment, and he did a double take at the sight.

“Welcome to the land of the livin’, Hanzo. Ya slept for damn near ages.”

There was Jesse, leaning against the wall near the cot the archer had been dumped into when he’d arrived, disheveled and missing an arm. The metal appendage was nowhere to be found; Hanzo vaguely recalled it being shot during the mission. It must have been removed for repairs, he reasoned.

Stretching out to touch the far walls, on either side of the one-armed man were rows and rows of cots and beds, all filled with wounded patients. Some were there with minor injuries, particularly nasty cuts and grazes, but others had been more seriously wounded. Hanzo saw gunshot wounds, dislocated joints, even broken bone cases sprinkled throughout the infirmary. 

McCree stepped closer to the cot, leaning down so that he could talk to the archer. “Our little group was among the lucky ones,” he murmured, glancing around the room at the more-unconscious-than-not patients. “Symmetra and Tracer got off scot free. As for me, well-” McCree gestured with his stump “- _I_ sure didn’t lose any blood. You’re the only one that really got hurt, and it ain’t even that bad.”

Hanzo suddenly remembered the graze of the bullet against the flesh of his stomach and winced, reminded of the pain. His hand went to his side, scrunching the papery thin hospital gown, feeling the tiny ridges of the bandage wrapped underneath it. Pulling his arm back, Hanzo turned his gaze on the cowboy, and was just about to open his mouth to speak when he was interrupted.

Angela had suddenly appeared by his side, checking him over, flitting around him like a moth around a light. “Are you alright?” she asked, lips pursed in concern. “I admit, I… do not know the protocol, for when someone passes out after… whatever that was.” 

McCree shrugged, a guilty look crossing his face as the doctor continued to speak. “McCree filled me in on what happened, so I decided to keep you here for the time being. But, if you are fine, you can go.”

Hanzo looked somewhat confused, a stuttering hand reaching back to the gunshot wound. “But what about-”

She interrupted him again. “You’ll be fine. It wasn’t that bad of a graze, and I have painkillers for you if you need them. We kind of need all the cots we can get right now.”

...

All the way back to Hanzo’s room, McCree had to help him walk. He had not needed as much assistance as McCree had needed when they first met, but still, it was incredibly helpful to have someone to catch him when he stumbled. 

The man’s rough hand on his waist steadied him again as he lurched forward, an accidental misstep causing his foot to catch on the floor. McCree gingerly avoided touching the bandaged patch of flesh on his side, instead opting to place his flesh hand further down on his hip to avoid stretching the skin above the wound. Hanzo leaned into him, taking care not to reopen the rip, one hand pressed to the wall and the other right above McCree’s, protecting the bandaged spot from harm. 

“Woah there,” the cowboy drawled softly as Hanzo stumbled slightly again, catching himself on the wall. “I’ve got you. I ain’t gonna let you fall.”

They did eventually make it to the room, locking the door behind them so that no one would disturb the still-healing Hanzo. McCree walked him to the bed, helping him lay down.

“You want me to tuck you in?” he joked, earning a cold stare from the archer. 

The cowboy sighed, on the verge of laughter. “Alright, alright.” He sat down beside Hanzo on the bed, mattress dipping down with his weight. He pulled a random book off of the side table, flipping through it absentmindedly while Hanzo popped some painkillers. The rhythmic sounds of turning pages and McCree’s breathing, and the pills soothing the throbbing wound on his side, lulled him into the familiar warmness of sleep. It was a dreamless sleep, deep and calm, better than he’d had in a long time despite the gunshot graze near his ribs. This was of course, in part, due to the painkillers, but also because having McCree beside him made him feel safe, something he was rarely able to do during his career of hunting down the officials of the Shimada clan. Rest never came easy in those days. There was always the paranoia, the fear of someone killing him while he was unguarded, to bite at his heels and keep him moving. It was hard to sleep when there was the possibility that someone could have been tailing him.

He would never admit this to the man, of course. Nor would he admit it to himself.

…

Gradually, his eyes opened, the soft light of the tableside lamp easing him to wake. The heady scent of coffee hit him as he slowly came to, a scent that had not been there before. Hanzo sat up gingerly, eyes stuttering all the way open. 

McCree was still sitting beside him, but he now had a food tray balanced in his lap and a warm cream-colored mug gripped tight in his hand. He was absentmindedly swirling the dark coffee around in it when he felt the shift of the bed and looked over to Hanzo.

“Brought you somethin’,” he smiled quietly. “Didn’t think you’d want to be up for very long, so this here is decaffeinated tea-” he gestured with his stump “-and some soup. You ain’t exactly sick but I figured it’d do some good anyways.”

Hanzo nodded, gently moving the tray onto his own lap. “Thank you,” he spoke, swirling the spoon around in the soup as he sipped the tea. It soothed him, warming his insides as McCree continued to talk. 

“Angela texted me… since there’s so many of us hurt- hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone dies- they’re bringing in some recruits from our sister facility-”

“Sister facility?” Hanzo interrupted, questioning. “I did not know we had a sister facility.”

“Me neither,” Jesse replied, setting his coffee on the side table before running a shaking hand through his hair. “I guess they like to keep these things on the down-low until we need to know.” Hanzo turned to him, noticing the way he kept glancing at his tattooed arm, then quickly turning away, as if he didn’t want to be caught looking. He knew exactly what it was about.

Meeting his eyes as the archer caught him looking, he spoke. “It is not rude to ask,” he reprimanded light-heartedly, taking a sip of his tea as he gazed up at the flustered cowboy.

“Ah- well, I was just wondering- uh- what the fuck _were_ those?”

“Language, Jesse,” he chuckled, before growing serious. His fingers traced over the tattoo, following the dragon’s lean, long body, intricate scales, curling whiskers. “Some of the Shimada family, the direct bloodline - my grandfather, my father, and I, for example - can call upon our spirit dragons when we are in need. They guide us through life, protect us. And, when we die, they usher us into the afterlife.” He rubbed absentminded circles on his wrist, over the dark clouds inked there.

McCree cleared his throat somewhat uncomfortably. “Well,” he murmured, stuttering, “...normally, I’d not believe somethin’ like that, but… I did kind of… _see_ them destroy a concrete wall.” 

Hanzo suppressed a laugh. “Most deny it until they see it. The reactions are always… interesting,” he told him. What he didn’t tell him was that most who had seen the dragons were dead. He rarely revealed them except in combat, and except for recently, he had worked alone.

He finished his soup, sipping down the last of it and setting the spoon back down into the bowl with a metallic clink, handing the tray off to McCree. Feeling the warmth of both the tea and the soup settle in his stomach and the steady droop of his eyelids, he scooched back down into the sinking cavity of the cheap mattress, Jesse helpfully holding the blankets up for him and making sure he didn’t rip any stitches. 

Sleep overtook him as the cowboy let go of the blankets, the soft light of the lamp going out to allow him his slumber.

…

 

It would have been a restful, good sleep, had it not been for the nightmare. 

Hanzo awoke in Shimada Castle, sprawled across the floor on his back. He groggily sat up, pushing on the floor with a hand to help himself stand. The hallways he could see into from his position were empty. Red walls surrounded him on three sides, and he looked up to see the expensive, dark wood stretching almost endlessly onward. There was only one way to go.

The disheveled archer stumbled forward, using a hand against one of the unnaturally smooth walls to guide him in the dark hall. He felt so uncoordinated, tripping over his own feet and allowing his unoccupied arm to hang sluggishly at his side. It felt like such a long journey to the paper door, which he slid open slowly, revealing… more hallway.

There was nothing left for him to do but walk, so he did. He navigated the maze of halls without a question as to why or how he got here. There was nothing and nobody here but him and his thoughts. 

When he could walk no more, he collapsed, face coming painfully close to hitting the floor: but he did not fall back into unconsciousness. Instead, he immediately phased through the wood and into another room.

This one was large, he noted, as his heavy breathing slowed. He was kneeling, for he had not fallen on his face as he had expected. His eyes flickered around the room, taking in its vast, high ceiling, the all-too-familiar dragon tapestry, and beneath it… himself.

Hanzo blinked in surprise and shock, becoming alert in seconds as he saw the shining blur of metal. He scrambled to his feet, a strangled shout dying in his throat as he ran towards the scene.

A shrieking metallic crash made him cringe as the two swords came together, sliding against one another, but then he was up and running towards the pair as if his worst fears were on his heels. And, in a way, they were.

The other, younger Hanzo raised his sword, preparing to slash again, steely determination in his eyes and sweat on his brow. The older surged forward, trying to intervene.

Then, everything slowed down. 

Genji’s fear turned to agony as the sword, on its downward path, ripped him open inch by inch.

Hanzo reached forward with a hand, anguish in his eyes, a scream of “No!” tearing forth from his throat and blending with those of his dying brother.

The lips of the attacking Hanzo draw back to reveal bared teeth, hardened stare not yet tinged with the tears of remorse.

Time sped back up again as the murderer fled the scene, backing away before full on sprinting towards the exit. Hanzo stumbled to his brother’s side, fat tears rolling down his face, mouth gaping in gasps and sobs, kneeling as he reached to touch Genji before pulling away. He collapsed, clenching and unclenching his fists. 

A soft, raspy voice called to him, and he looked up, red eyed. 

“Hanzo… brother. Stay with me…” Genji whispered, fingers twitching as he spoke, eyes half lidded.

Hanzo nodded, taking his brother’s hand gingerly, a whole new well of tears beginning to flow. “Of course. Of course,” he stuttered, gulping down a sob.

“I don’t want to die alone…” came the barely audible murmur.

Hanzo’s voice broke, strangled and brittle. “I know. I am here.”

He stayed like that for what seemed like hours, long after his brother had passed, until he began to slip from the dream. Sounds of “Hanzo. Hanzo,” that had barely caught his attention before became louder and louder.

Suddenly sitting upright in bed with a gasp, he glanced around the room frantically before catching McCree’s concerned eyes. He had been the one calling his name.

“You ok?” the man asked, fretting over him. “Sorry for wakin’ ya, but you were kinda… well…” His eyes passed over the other man’s cheeks, a fleeting glance.

Hanzo brought a hand to his face, feeling the wetness of the tears still there from the dream. This is too much for him to handle with Jesse here.

He gathers himself, sitting up on the bed to grab at his prosthetics, but McCree beat him to the punch and took hold of his wrist. Hanzo did not respond, his back still facing him, though the slump in his shoulders was more than enough to give off a distant vibe.

He brought the heel of his hand to his eye, rubbing away the hot tears that had begun to well up again, a tiny jerk shaking him as he tried to choke down a sob. 

After a minute of steeling himself to turn, Hanzo moved to face Jesse, slowly, eyes downcast. He was a mess, all red eyes and puffy cheeks and quiet quivering.

Jesse’s face softened. “Oh, Hanzo,” he murmured, pulling the despondent man into a hug. He bunched his hands in the fabric of the cowboy’s serape, pressing his face into it in a last ditch effort to keep Jesse from having to see him like this, before giving up and letting go completely.

He shook, weeped, sobbed, all into Jesse’s shoulder as he rubbed slow circles into his back, whispering that it would be okay and that he was here. The arms pulled tight around his back were pressing so hard it hurt, but Jesse didn’t care. He needed to be here for Hanzo, and if he had to stay here for the whole day, he would.

Eventually, though, the little cries of anguish quieted, the shakes wracking his body stopped, the arms around Jesse slipped off as Hanzo pressed the pads of his thumbs into his bloodshot eyes.

“I am… sorry,” he mumbled, voice flat. It’s been a long time since someone was there to witness one of his breakdowns, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it. Would Jesse avoid him after seeing him like this? He sure hoped not.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jesse asked quietly, leaning forward to place a reassuring hand on his arm.

“No.”

“That’s fine.”

…

The next hour found them laying side by side, facing each other, exhaustion having taken over the archer once more. He was in a light doze, not enough to dream but enough to not be aware of his surroundings. The only sounds in the room were the ever-present buzz of the holovid and the rasp of the sleeping man’s slow breathing. Jesse lay awake next to him, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. He had started to feel the pull of slumber as well, but was trying his hardest to resist it.

His lips were ticked up into a tiny, warm smile, almost as warm as Hanzo’s hand, fingers interlaced with his own.


	24. Rango

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> To all my readers, consistent or not, thank you so much!! your support means a lot to me! I read all of your comments and cherish each and every one. More chapters to come!

Long after McCree had lost his battle with unconsciousness and had fallen into a deep slumber, Hanzo woke up.

It was dark in the room, the lamp having been turned off hours ago, but he could still make out the form of the man splayed across the bed, arm stump lodged underneath his chest and flesh hand still holding his own. Their hands were clasped tight, fingers intertwined. 

He did not know why he did it. Later, he would question if he even did it at all, given his groggy, half-asleep state.

Hanzo, muscles weak from sleep, squeezed Jesse’s hand in his own, scooching closer under the covers until he was pressed up against the man’s side, settling back down and closing his eyes. Sleep did not come to him; though his breathing slowed with contentedness, the feeling of warm contact between him and Jesse sent enough of a spark through him to keep him barely awake. 

The only sound in the room was the gentle breathing of the pair, synced together from so many hours spent lying together under the covers. Hanzo’s face, buried into the serape, had flushed, and in his sleepy haze he thanked his lucky stars that the room was dark enough to hide it, and that Jesse was still asleep. 

The heady scent of pine forest and smoke surrounded him as he nosed deeper into the worn fabric, relaxing again with a sigh. No mind was paid to his aching wound as he slipped back into a comfortable doze, lulled by the gentle rise and fall of the other man’s broad chest against his own.

…

It must have been near an hour before the other began to stir, the pins and needles in his half-arm enough to make him untangle himself from the unconscious Hanzo before dragging a hand across bleary eyes. He sat up in bed, casting a glance down at the peacefully slumbering archer.

McCree reached his hand out slowly before pulling it back in hesitation, but seemed to once again change his mind as he brushed a strand of hair out of Hanzo’s face and behind his little grey wings with trembling fingers, before standing abruptly and stiffly striding to the bathroom.

He closed the door with a gentle click, locking it after him before turning to the mirror, bracing himself against the porcelain sink with his good hand.

_Don’t get involved._

The thought invaded his mind and he tried to block it out, but to no avail: he knew it was right. Don’t get involved, with every mission came the chance that one of them could die, every day the risk of another Switzerland incident hung over their heads.

He squeezed his eyes shut, baring his teeth at the laundry list of things that could go wrong if they got any closer. They were all troubling to consider on their own, but the most painful, ripping, nagging thought was yet to come. 

_You’ll hurt him._

Though Jesse didn’t want to consider it, he knew it was more than plausible. Hanzo seemed to have taken over the job of making sure he made it outside on time on the full moons, and twice now he’d come close to being killed. The first time, he had been tossed around by the werewolf and now bore the marks to prove it; the second, he’d narrowly avoided being caught on Floor G with it.

The thing could easily rip a person to shreds, he knew. He knew. It had happened once before, a death he’d do anything to forget.

McCree winced, a strangled gasp forced from his throat as he tasted the blood in his mouth, felt the give of flesh and the cracks of bone under his fangs. It all felt so real, like he was there again, in that same hallway where he’d ripped the guard limb from limb on a backdrop of his anguished screams. He retched, leaning over the sink, mind racing incoherently, like the static on a TV that couldn’t pick up a channel. Horrified, he watched a fat glob of oily black liquid slide down his lip and down into the drain.

It wasn’t just the guard. There had been others. Memories of waking up to blood-spattered walls and residential homes torn apart flooded him, the bones of the innocent shattered and skin and muscle dragged across linoleum and carpet. The Deadlock gang had their ways of getting revenge on those that didn’t pay up in time and nearly all of them involved shoving one of their members into the house of the victim on the night of a full moon.

There had been others, and there would be more.

Overwatch had picked him up from the gang instead of just turning him in for a reason. It was easier to let himself kill whoever was on the list of the organization knowing the target was a target because they’d done something unspeakably horrible, and was too dangerous to try to take down if sought after by other agents, but it was still hard to wake up and see mangled, raw limbs he knew once resembled a human’s flung to opposite sides of a room.

He coughed again, little black drips speckling the white porcelain, and dragged his trembling forearm across his lips, leaving an inky smear on his arm. _Disgusting,_ he thought. _Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting._

The creak of the bed and the insistent jiggling of the doorknob snapped him out of his thoughts. “Just- just a minute,” he croaked, turning the sink handle and splashing his face before letting the cool water wash the tarlike liquid down the drain.

As soon as he had turned the lock on the door, it swung open, and standing in the frame looking up at him was Hanzo. His hair had escaped his bun and was floating lazily around his face, lit by the fluorescent bulbs of the bathroom ceiling. Under the dark eyes of the archer puffed bags, a testament to his screwed-up sleep schedule and the aching pain of the bandaged wound at his side. 

And, as it always was when he found himself alone with the man, the part of his mind infected with the instincts of the werewolf lurched, whispering to him through violently sudden urges. It was an emotional beast, if nothing else.

 _Bite him,_ it would say, as he ran his tongue over the sharp points of his fangs. _Just one little nip wouldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t turn him._

McCree knew better. He clenched his fists against the urges, somewhat silencing them. Like the parasite that it was, it was always trying to multiply its kind, to spread and infect more. It wouldn’t stop, but as long as he wasn’t within a few days of a transformation, it was fairly easy to ignore.

Hanzo placed a hand on the open door, stepping into the bathroom tentatively, gazing up at McCree with lidded, sleepy eyes. “Are you alright?” he asked, concerned.

Jesse turned and grabbed the hand towel off the rung, swiping it across his face, stalling. “Yeah, yeah,” he dismissed the question, “just getting cleaned up.” 

The smaller man’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Jesse as if he didn’t believe him, as he entered the tiny bathroom. He dumped a towel onto the counter, working at the top button of his shirt. “Well, can I take a shower?” 

“Oh,” Jesse started, taking the hint and about to leave before he turned back around, concern in his eyes. “You sure you’re gonna be okay, with, you know…” He gestured in the general direction of Hanzo’s bandages.

As if reminded of it suddenly, the archer’s hand went to his side, hovering over where he knew the meticulously stitched graze was hidden underneath the rough surface of the shirt. “...oh.”

He probed at it carefully, wincing in pain as his finger dimpled the tender skin there. It was healing well so far, and he didn’t want to risk ripping the stitches and getting a stern talking-to by Angela, but it needed to be cleaned and he didn’t see any other way to do just that.

He cleared his throat after looking up from the wound, somewhat commanding. “Stay here.” And then, with something resembling a chuckle: “If I bleed out, it is best you know right away.”

Flipping down the lid on the toilet seat, Jesse sat, crossing a leg over the other to save space for Hanzo, who was now perched on the edge of the bathtub with the thin shower curtain pulled back, turning the knob with one hand and holding the other under the stream of water to feel for the heat. He shook his hand around to rid it of the water, little droplets of it clinging to his face and neck, before bringing both to his chest to unbutton the rest of the shirt with deft fingers. All through this, he could feel the burning of staring eyes.

A sly glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicions, and when he caught McCree’s gaze, he merely smirked and turned back around. No longer could he feel the man’s stare as he shrugged the shirt off of his shoulders and dropped it onto the floor next to him, undoing the bandages carefully.

He braced one arm against the far wall of the shower, allowing what should have been easy access to the wound. But, as it was closer to his back than it was to his front, it was hard for him to see, and because of this is was hard for him to touch without wincing in pain at a misstep.   
Wielding a grey, warm rag that Hanzo had soaked under the faucet’s stream for a minute or so, he reached around and dabbed at the dried blood congealed there - or at least tried to. The rough fabric of the rag passed over the raw skin held by the sutures, making him swear under his breath.

A creak from the toilet lid made him look up as McCree moved to his side, placing a hand over his own, taking over the rag. “Here, let me…” he trailed off, soaking the rag again to the tune of mild protest from Hanzo, which he silenced with a drawling “Hush.”

The rag met skin as he washed off the dark stains of the dry blood, doing his very best not to touch the line of stitches holding him together. His lips were parted in concentration, eyes focused, gaze deliberate. Hanzo tried his best not to stare, biting his bottom lip at the little pinpricks of pain and turning away.

After about five minutes of silence broken only by the tug of fabric against skin and the gentle rumble of the water on the porcelain tub, Jesse spoke.

“There we are!” he smiled, holding the considerably bloodier rag under the stream as they both watched the red swirl down the drain. He wrung it out (as best as he could with one hand) and draped it over the faucet, turning that off as well before grabbing a fresh roll of gauze from the bathroom counter.

“That, I can do,” the wounded archer jested as he took the gauze from McCree, placing the pad on the graze before rolling the bandages over it and securing them.

…

McCree shoveled another bite of the cafeteria’s dirty rice into his mouth, tipping his hat up to survey the room. Void of its usual crowds due to both the new recruits being sent on a recent mission and the mass of the other agents inhabiting the infirmary, it felt oddly quiet. Only a few people were spread about it, keeping their coffee and their words to themselves. The archer, ever quiet, sipped his tea in the chair adjacent.

A bump at the table made them look up simultaneously. Lena, who had apparently grabbed a sandwich and coffee before taking a seat next to them, waved hello.

“Hiya!” she smiled as she took a bite. “Dreadfully empty, in’t it?” She gestured with her sandwich hand.

“Yeah…” Jesse started, rubbing his bleary eyes, tired. “Angela said we were the lucky ‘uns. Everyone else got hurt pretty bad.”

Hanzo gulped down the last of the lukewarm coffee before speaking up, a hand absentmindedly making its way down to the wound on his side. “Satya allowed us to escape quickly. Had she not been there, we might have died.”

Lena nodded and swallowed nervously. “Y- yeah,” she trembled. It never failed to amaze how close one can come to death.

“Where is she anyways?” The little pilot wondered, standing a little to steal a glance around the room, before she spotted her sitting with perfect posture, alone, not eating, but reading. “Hey! Hey Satya! Hey!”

The architect in question shifted slightly in her seat as her eyes, confusion clouding them, darted up. She pointed at herself with one long, slender finger, as if to say, _me?_

In response, Lena nodded her head exaggeratedly, waving her over with large, sweeping gestures.

Lena and Hanzo both, as they were positioned on either side of McCree, could feel him tense up at the echo of the dainty footsteps approaching hesitantly. He knew how most people felt about him, and they knew he knew this as well. It had happened with every person before and would happen with every person since, this mutual aversion each had to the other, albeit for different reasons.

Still, Symmetra pulled back the chair next to Lena and sat with her, silence unbroken by her newfound company for several minutes as they all found other things to do. Some ate, others tapped their fingers or read.

Toying with the mug in his hands, Hanzo spoke. “Have any of you seen any of the new recruits yet? McCree and I have not.” It was a question he was hoping would get all of them talking, as the air was thickening with awkwardness with every passing second.

Symmetra closed her book and placed it perfectly perpendicular to her, face up. “Yes,” she said, voice as smooth and polished as her jewelry. “There are not many. And, quite frankly, they are the most disorganized, despicable people I have ever seen.”

Taken aback, both Hanzo and McCree turned to Symmetra with a simultaneous “What?”

When the former Vishkar employee refused to speak more on the subject, Lena filled in for her. She rolled her eyes before adding “Remember Lucio? Famous musician, freedom fighter?” 

Hanzo nodded with a grunt and McCree replied with a quick “Yeah.”

“Well, he’s one of the new recruits-”

“I cannot believe I have to work with him!” Symmetra bursted, interrupting her. “He’s a filthy thieving rat-”

McCree stood from his chair, pushing it back from the table with force before calmly ambling over to Satya and Lena, gripping the plastic backing of their seats. “I think maybe we should calm down,” he rumbled, brown eyes tinged with something unrecognizable. “Ain’t no way to talk about a teammate like that.”

Hanzo immediately understood the meaning behind his words, even if Jesse himself was not aware of it. To hear of an agent talked of so poorly - it almost reflected his own situation, and he was not going to let that happen to anyone else.

Both women shrunk in his imposing presence and Hanzo was pretty sure he even saw a bead of sweat roll down Symmetra’s brow.

“H- hey,” Lena piped up as she stood, both trying to diffuse the situation and trying to get away from the suddenly towering McCree. “Not that this isn’t fun and all, but are we just gonna sit around all day?”

Three pairs of questioning eyes turned to her. “What could we possibly do otherwise?” Symmetra asked, condescending tone thinly veiled under the guise of curiosity.

That had them all pondering, heads bowed in thought. The facility had been built in a hurry before the fall of Overwatch. It was never really intended to be used for long periods of time and had been more to shield civilians than anything, so it was cramped and had utilized most space either for storage or for living quarters. Recreation had not been taken into consideration during construction.

There was, of course, the training room, but it was small and had been formed by knocking out the walls separating some of the living units. It could only house so much equipment.

Lena began to speak, somewhat hesitant at the idea of sharing her room with them, but seeing no other viable course of action. “I, uh, had Athena download some movies onto my holovid a while back-”

“Any westerns?” McCree interrupted, eyes bright with interest. He gripped the chair tighter.

“Sort of?” she pondered, her face twisting.

“S’alright by me,” the cowboy, nodded, a rare smile gracing his lips. Hanzo and Symmetra rose slowly to join the two already standing, and Lena shrugged her shoulders and began to lead the way.

…

Ten minutes and countless angry creaks from the bed frame later, the four of them were comfortably seated. The long side of the twin-sized bed had been pushed up against the wall to create a sort-of couch and all the pillows were stuffed behind their backs. Lena had a surprising amount of pillows, far too many than should have been able to fit, so they were all snug and cozy.

The only sound in the heavily decorated room was the collective breathing of the group and the occasional beep of the holovid as Lena swiped her arm in the air to scroll through files. She had set the holovid to project its screen above them but at an angle, so that they could lean back to watch it.

“So, where is this western you promised us?” Hanzo laughed, as she scrolled through possibly hundreds of files, an impenetrable wall of text.

“I promise, it’s in here somewhere!” she exclaimed, before finally settling on a title. It was short, only five letters.

 _Rango_ , it read.

She air-tapped it as she settled back into her blanket-nest, grinning.

Hanzo could feel McCree tapping his fingers in time to the low music as the studio intros played. His skin was alight where they were pressed up against each other, shoulder-to-thigh on the small bed. The cowboy’s serape had somehow ended up draped over them like a blanket.

Four animated owls marched onto the screen and his tapping ceased. Hanzo turned his head on the stack of pillows, and almost burst out laughing when he saw the weirdest face he’d ever seen the man make, facial features all scrunched up in confusion, eyes squinted. Lena must have seen it too, because a split second later he heard a strangled noise from her direction and her hand flew up to cover her mouth.

“I thought…” he started, and then trailed off. “...the hell is this?”

Lena abandoned all attempts to keep a trickle of bubbly laughter contained, and let go. She doubled over, clutching her stomach. At this, Satya balked, looking very much like a startled deer.

“You promised me a western!” Jesse tried to glare, but the laughter was infectious and he began to chuckle. Under the woven, rough fabric of the serape, Hanzo could feel his fist clenching and unclenching against his arm, as if he didn’t want to ruin the moment. He was… nervous? Uncertain, for sure.

They fell into a comfortable silence as the movie progressed. The halfway mark saw a considerable change in McCree, his eyes wide and receptive as he watched the main characters steal back the bank’s vault in an unexpectedly well-executed hog chase. The sight of him being so engrossed in such a ridiculous movie almost made the archer giggle. He stole a glance at the two others over the cowboy’s chest, Lena with her arms folded behind her nodding head and Satya waving her arms, raving to her about the similarities between early 2000s animation and hard-light technology. Deciding to speak quietly so as not to disturb the two, he wriggled onto his side, bringing his mouth close to Jesse’s left ear. His hot breath stirred the stray hairs there as he whispered to him, “You are ridicu-”

He startled, eyes going wide as he was immediately interrupted. Jesse turned his head to respond, a “What?” caught in his throat as velvety-soft lips brushed his own, sending an icy-cold shock down both their spines. 

It lasted only a split second, and was quite accidental, but left both men with no words and shallow breaths. That is, until McCree turned back to face the ceiling with his hands over his face. “Fuck. I’m sorry,” he mumbled, a ruddy blush creeping out from underneath his fingers.

Electric spikes still shooting through his bones, Hanzo also turned back to the movie, hiding the nature of his own red face with a quiet “Accidents happen.”


	25. Sway

The next day, the halls were no longer void of their usual crowds. Many milled about, and among them, new faces scoped out the base. The old, weathered ones retired to their rooms to settle in or greeted old comrades they thought they’d never see again, while the newer transfers explored with all the cautious curiosity of deer. Hanging over them all, so thick it pressed down on shoulders and bowed heads, the oppressive fog of dropping morale filtered through the facility.

This, along with the insane amount of space that was _not_ available for use in the cafeteria, drove the four together again.

It had been a day since the movie, since the accidental kiss. They’d gone to sleep in separate rooms, in their own beds, trying to put some space between them and their embarrassment. 

Of course, this could not last.

McCree pushed his way through the crowded cafe, weaving through people and chairs and tables, his sights set on the coffee machine that was just barely visible through those milling about. Quiet chatter droned on around him, and he paid it no mind. That was, of course, until the tapered points of his ears twitched under the mop of his hair, picking a rough, low voice out from the rest.

 _Coffee first,_ he thought, finally making it to the machine and filling a paper cup quickly before turning back to the already-converging sea of people.

Jesse held the tiny cup delicately, shouldering past chatting people with his eyes down to make sure he did not spill any of the hot liquid. He was not as clumsy doing this as many would be; he did not need his eyes to know where he was going. It was easy to pick out the sweet, open fragrance of the man, the clean scent that reminded him of the night air after it rains.

He found Hanzo reasoning quietly, sharply with Satya, a hand grasping her tiny wrist. She was trying to yank it out of his grip, eyes staring daggers at someone over his shoulders. 

“Hey now,” McCree spoke, deep voice interrupting the two. “What’s going on?” 

Satya finally managed to slip her slim fingers through the tight cage of Hanzo’s, huffing. Her eyes flicked from Jesse’s to the crowd beside them, where a circle had formed around a certain freedom fighter.

The shorter man’s face, bright with the exhilaration of meeting so many new teammates, somehow lit up even more when he caught a glance of McCree through the gaps in the crowd. He waved a goodbye to his newfound friends, and they parted with good-natured pats on his back as he passed them.

“Ay, Eastwood!” he laughed, leaning back with his hands on his hips, regarding the man. “Never met an actual cowboy before. Name’s Lucio.”

Lucio held out his hand, curling fingers awaiting a shake. At this, as if a silence had settled throughout the cafeteria, three pairs of wide eyes turned to meet Jesse’s.

Hanzo’s, fraught with sharp worry, darting between the outstretched hand and Jesse’s hesitant fist. Satya’s, pointed gaze directed more at the musician than the cowboy. And finally, Lucio’s, earnest, smiling eyes, never suspecting there may be something more dangerous hidden under his skin.

McCree’s rough palm met the smaller one of the musician in a hearty handshake. “Pleased t’ meet ya,” he drawled, a genuine smile crossing his lips. He could almost swear he heard a gasp from behind him, but it could just be his imagination.

Shaking his hand vigorously before letting go, Lucio smiled back at him, kindness in his gaze. “Cool, man. See you around.”

And with that, he turned on his heel with a wave, back through the crowd and out of sight.

The glow coming off of McCree as he turned to his two friends, one still trying to restrain the other, seemed to light up the cafeteria. Nothing could compare to the brightness of his smile, though. It wasn’t even dampened when Symmetra pushed him aside, flipping the most graceful bird he’d ever seen in the direction the freedom fighter had gone.

“Hey now,” he warned, lifting his arm as she passed underneath it, stomping off to stew about one thing or another. He turned on his ankle, placing an unintentionally threatening hand on her shoulder. 

Hanzo rushed to join the two, meeting McCree’s eyes as he blocked the way for Symmetra. Their gazes met, and both knew they needed to keep her away from the man. Though their hatred was probably not enough to instigate an explosion, stills of charred, mangled base ruins still flashed in the cowboy’s vision.

“Let go of me,” Satya seethed, delicately shrugging the hand off of her shoulder. “I have business to attend to,” she continued, shooting a reddened glance past their shoulders.

“Absolutely not,” Hanzo spoke, softly, interrupted by the other man’s “Ain’t gonna do anyone no good to fight. We’ve already got enough in the med bay.”

Her expression softened then, though her lithe body remained tense. “I do not understand why - he could have just - it just would have been so much of an improvement to their lives. He singlehandedly ruined the reputation of Vishkar.”

Though McCree seriously doubted Vishkar was a spotless organization in the first place, all he offered was “The man had his reasons. You had yours,” in an attempt to diffuse the situation.

She opened her mouth, thin eyebrows drawn together, but before the words could escape past her lips Lena spotted the three of them and zipped over. McCree winced inwardly. He would never get used to how she could just immediately transport.

“Heyo!” she pipped, balancing a mug of coffee in the crook of her elbow as she tucked a book under her other arm. “Bit crowded, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” McCree grumbled as someone bumped him into Hanzo, who stood stock still even as he was jostled. “Why don’t we get out of here?”

“Good idea. How about another movie day?” Lena smiled, throwing a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of her living quarters.

Both suddenly reminded of the accidental kiss and hyperaware that their arms were still touching, Hanzo pulled back and McCree started after Lena, who had already begun to lead the way. “Alright,” he rumbled, putting distance between him and his companion as quickly as possible. “But it had better be a real western this time.”

…

Symmetra, who had trailed angrily after the trio, lay with her arms crossed between McCree and Hanzo on the bed as Lena browsed for something to watch. Hanzo had laced his fingers together, lying still as a statue with his face turned to the ceiling. 

He moved only when he felt the point of Lena’s elbow dent into his side. “Here we are,” she said cheerfully, softly, snapping her hand closed to select the file.

His eyes followed the title card as it flashed across the holovid projection, looking but not seeing. There was too much on his mind to focus on something so trivial.

There was the trust. The closeness. The nights spent over, though those could be explained away due to the necessity of their assistance, in those situations. And, finally, there was the kiss.

His mind had been stuck on that one. The thought of those soft lips brushing against his own, even if accidental, made electricity shoot through him even now. It was torture.

Grunting, Hanzo shimmied down off the bed, excusing himself with a quiet “I will be right back,” crossing the room in five short steps. He slipped into the hallway, closing the door silently behind him.

Not even a minute later, the click of the door opening made him look up from where he had sat, leaning back against the wall. His heart jumped, only calming when he saw that the person who had come to check on him was not his cowboy, but Lena.

Sliding down the wall to drop into a kneeling position beside him, she placed a small hand on his shoulder. “Hanzo?” the small woman started, shuffling forward a bit. “You alright, luv?”

The archer shrugged her hand off of his arm. “I do not wish to burden you with my troubles,” he rasped, turning back to face the wall opposite them. 

Her hand returned to her lap to clasp the other. “Is it about McCree? I’ve never seen you be this… uh, _awkward_ around anyone, much less him.”

“What are you implying?” he shot back, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing! Nothing,” she raised her hands in defense, “Wait- you mean there’s nothing… going on, between you two?”

Hanzo’s fingers twisted together in his lap and he looked down at them, taking any excuse not to look her in the eye. The sound of their breathing was the only thing audible in the empty hallway for a good long time.

“I… do not know anymore,” he confessed, softly. “He has nothing in his heart for me; I am sure of it…”

“Aww, don’t say that!” Lena interrupted.

“No, I know it is so,” he countered. A deep breath found its way past his lips. “But I do, however miniscule. And dealing with these, these-” he clenched his hands “- _feelings_... it is the only thing my past had not prepared me for.”

The silence returned then, carving a rift between them. Lena’s expression had dropped into one of hopelessness, eyes downcast, a mirror of Hanzo’s face.

Hanzo shifted, standing up with a sigh. “Do not wait on me,” he murmured as he made his way down the hallway, resenting the feeling of her eyes on him. The click of the door opening and closing as Lena slipped back inside urged him forth.

 

…

 

Less people hung around the cafeteria now, probably off to sleep or unpack. Hanzo meandered through the gradually thinning crowd to the coffee machine, spooning the grinds into the little compartment and nudging a mug under the spout. 

Seeing no point in waiting at the machine, he strode to a nearby table, slipping into the seat with a little less grace than was normal for him. 

Lord knows how long he’d sat there, watching the dark liquid slowly rising in the mug, before the table creaked beside him. Glancing over, he met the chocolate eyes of the Brazilian musician, one broad hand putting all his weight on the edge of the table as he leaned into it. 

“Hey man,” Lucio started, his eyes flicking around the room before finally meeting his again. “Mind if I sit here?”

“I do not,” Hanzo replied tiredly, gesturing to the seat beside him. Lucio took it, looking much too stiff for someone of his energy. The sound of tapping fingernails against the table punctuated each nervous breath from his direction.

“Is something troubling you?” the archer questioned, raising an eyebrow. Lucio turned to him, fingers stilling.

“Why is everyone so… I dunno… sad? Quiet?”

Hanzo considered his words, propping his chin up on his palm. “The mission that brought you here… it did not go well. Many were hurt, myself included. I do not expect the atmosphere to recover for quite a while.”

“And no one’s gonna do anything about it?”

“Nothing _can_ be done, I do not think. It is not like we have the resources.”

The coffee machine beeped, and Hanzo pushed back his chair as he stood. When he got back to the table, steaming mug in hand, Lucio was gone.

…

Just about three minutes later, the double doors on the side of the cafeteria swung open. Hanzo’s eyes flicked to them, watching as two people pushed their way through, eyes scanning the tables.

Jesse locked gazes with him, almost immediately turning away. Lena, at his side but slightly behind him, noticed this and sped forward, reaching the table before the cowboy did.

Watching the both of them make their way to his front, Hanzo asked over the rim of his mug, “Where is Satya?”

The scrape of the chair against cheap tile made him cringe inwardly as Lena pulled it out, taking a seat. McCree just stood beside them both, his presence making Hanzo shrink back just a tad.

“She left a while back to straighten her room or stare down that new guy from a distance or something. We passed him in the hallway, he was like, raving about planning a dance or something. Sounded fun to me.”

Hanzo sipped from the mug, holding it in both hands with his elbows on the table. He was far too tired for manners. “Yes, he did speak with me earlier about team morale. Maybe he wishes to lighten the mood?”

Lena leaned back in her chair, face morphing suddenly into a terrifying, leering concoction of excitement, cunning, and mischief. If the expressions of either McCree of Hanzo were anything to go by, they were, to say the least, taken aback.

“Hey guys, if he is planning a dance, you two should go together!”

All of a sudden, the table was flecked with coffee spray. “what,” was the quiet reply from the sitting man, his mouth now as empty as his mug. The standing one did not reply at all. Rather, he tensed.

“Well, would you look at the time,” started Lena, checking an imaginary watch with a flamboyant flick of her wrist. “I’d say it’s about time I get going.”

In the second it took her to say that, she blinked out of the chair, across the cafeteria, and through the swinging cafeteria doors.

Way too hesitantly, almost as if he didn’t want to meet eyes with the man, McCree bowed his head. The click of the fingernails of his good hand on the plastic chair was somehow deafening. “I, uh… I need to go get my arm from Angela, she’s fixed it and, uh, I need-”

“Cease your rambling, it is fine,” Hanzo answered quietly. He stood, crossing the room and slipping into the kitchen to wash the mug. He didn’t care if he wasn’t supposed to be in there.

And the only people who saw the shaking of his fingers as he scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed were the kitchen staff.

…

The anxiety of the past few days had finally caught up with him. The notifications informing everyone of the incoming party/dance had long since come and gone on the shimmering screens of the holovids, and it had long since become the talk of the town - well, facility. Attendance was mandatory for those fit, as a way to hopefully boost the morale of the inhabitants - Hanzo had heard this all through his own personal grapevine: Lena. And, here she stood, in front of him in his room, tidied since the cowboy had taken to sleeping in his own.

The pilot’s face was mere inches from his own, round eyes squinted in concentration as she bent over him. 

“Stop moving,” she whispered, dragging the strangely cold brush tip of the eyeliner over the edge of his eyelid. 

“I cannot help it-” he started, earning a swat on the arm and a giggly “Shhh!”. The sensation of the liquid makeup on his skin vaguely reminded him of when he was young and still had reasons to wear it; as he had grown older, he lost the muscle memory to more important things, like staying alive.

“There!” Lena pipped, leaning back with her hands on her hips to admire her handiwork. Hanzo waited a minute to give it time to dry, and then opened his eyes. He found himself gazing into a tiny handheld mirror, his shaky reflection displaying the sharp red accents.

“Very nice,” he quietly admitted, turning from side to side to admire it. “You have some skill, then.”

“Not done yet!” she exclaimed, blinking behind him to mess with his hair. She ran a comb through the greying strands, fresh and damp from his shower. “Do you want to wear it down?”

Taking a black hair tie from around his wrist, he gathered his hair in his hands, tying the top layer into a bun and letting the rest flow down into a bob. “How is this?” he asked, running his fingers through it to straighten it.

Lena pursed her lips, admiring it. “Wonderful,” she whispered, moving to comb the hair that was left down a bit more, tucking strands into the bun. “You’re gonna knock him dead.”

A spike of cold anxiety shot through him, settling in the pit of his stomach. He recognized it for what it was: dread, a feeling common to him, one that he had never quite gotten used to, that pestered him endlessly.

“I am not doing this for- he does not want me,” Hanzo affirmed quietly, standing from the chair and striding into the bathroom to check his hair in the larger, wall-mounted mirror. Steam from his shower still crept along the edges of it, wiped away hastily so that he could see better.

Hanzo smoothed the black hakama with his hands, fussing over one of the pleats. It hadn’t been the most formal thing in his closet, but it was the only garment he didn’t wear on a regular basis, and he had to admit that it looked nice, crisp and new enough to wear to the dance.

(“Neat dress,” Lena had commented when he’d exited the bathroom with it on. He had quickly corrected her.)

“Wanna practice? I could use the help even if you don’t need it,” the pilot asked, holding her hands out. 

He crossed the room, thanking her quietly before placing one hand on her waist and taking the other in his own. Both looking down at their feet, they started to move.

In just a whisper, the archer instructed: “Backwards, left, forwards, right, backwards, left, forwards, right… there you go, just a simple box step. Who are you planning on dancing with?”

Lena kept a watchful eye on her moving feet, making sure they didn’t step out of time. “I dunno… my sweetheart’s somewhere else, but it’s fun to do with a friend, y’know? We stumble, and we laugh. It’s all in good fun.”

“I suppose,” the archer answered. “Who is to say there even will be a slow song? Lucio is very… energetic.”

“You can say that again,” she laughed, accidentally tripping over Hanzo’s prosthetic foot. He stopped, allowing her to find the rhythm again. “Don’t get your hopes up, luv. You’re gonna have to face your cowboy eventually.”

He closed his eyes, humming. “And who is to say he will even come to the dance? I would bet you my clan’s fortune that he isn’t even thinking about it.”

…

Jesse sighed as he slipped into a cheap but formal-looking pinstripe shirt and vest left over from an undercover mission. What was he thinking? He shouldn’t even be doing this, shouldn’t be trying to get closer to Hanzo- in his heart he knew it would only end in tragedy. But, here he was, wiggling a red-and-orange necktie tighter around his neck, buttoning his vest and combing the knots from his thick, curling hair. 

After he was done putting the finishing touches on his outfit, he stood tall, scrutinizing every miniscule detail in the bathroom mirror, fixing what he could and agonizing over what he couldn’t. He hated the scars, tiny lines on his hand and neck, hated the starbursts marking him where he’d been shot, hated that he had to roll one of the sleeves up to the elbow to keep it from stretching over his metal forearm. They all reminded him of the frailty of life in this place.

Back in his room, Jesse toed piles of books and clothes and empty bottles out of the way, clearing a space on his floor. Slowly, bashfully, he raised his arms, one at shoulder level and one off to his side, grasping an imaginary hand. If he was going to do this tonight, he was going to do it right.

One foot forward, one to the right. One foot back, one to the left. He swayed, dancing to a melody as imaginary as the invisible partner he grasped, making lopsided circles around his room. The sound of his dress shoes tapping the floor echoed out the door, the rhythmic sound the only one piercing the silence on his level of the facility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> getting closer to the nsfw stuff, here is your warning


	26. The Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :0 what's this?? a chapter that didn't take a month to write??
> 
> Song is Desperado - Eagles

McCree tapped his fingers to the beat of Elvis’s _Burning Love_ as he walked, the upbeat music making the walls vibrate in time. Whether he was tapping them out of habit or out of nervousness, no one knew but him.

The doors of the cafeteria were propped open, revealing a diorama of agents either dancing or pretending not to care, a makeshift stage supporting all of Lucio’s equipment, lights of various colors strung about the ceiling, and an actual disco ball twirling above it all. That last one drew a chuckle out of the cowboy. 

As he made his way through the doors, he nodded at Satya, sitting in the corner with her arms crossed, eyebrows drawn together in suppressed anger. Nevertheless, her foot tapped in time to the music. McCree decided not to point it out.

Clasping his flesh hand and metal hand together in mock prayer, he thanked the lord for providing him refuge in these trying times: the snack table. It was loaded down with chips, dips, some of those weird vegetable platters, but most importantly - booze. It was skimpy, even by overwatch standards, and had a person at the table watching to make sure no one just grabbed five paper cups or so of it, but he was grateful for the liquid courage nonetheless. He snagged one off of the table and downed it quickly, savoring the burn before flicking the small, empty cup into the trash.

A brush of someone’s hand against his good arm had him turning around, looking for the source in the crowd. Standing behind him, bobbing to the music, was a somewhat inebriated Lena. 

“Heyo! Dance with me?” the pilot questioned, holding a small hand out. He took it, laughing. No one here was a real lightweight, and McCree was pretty sure they’d all had a bit too much to drink at some point in their lives due to the nature of their work, but Lena’s alcohol tolerance was _nothing_ like his. 

They clasped hands, holding each other not quite at arms’ length, twirling in a loose jive dance. Soon, both were giggling as McCree held his flesh hand up so that she could twirl beneath it. 

“Nice suit,” he shouted over the music, eyes roaming over the almost perfectly tailored black sleeves.

“Thanks, love!” Lena shouted back, holding her arm out straight with her hand hanging limp to admire the fabric. “Had it leftover from an undercover sting.”

“Same here,” he laughed, puffing out his chest to show the vest off. “Ain’t the best but I don’t think anyone would much appreciate my chaps or hat in this settin’.”

“Hah, looks good on you,” she smiled, eyes flicking for a split second to something behind him. Her smile widened, almost growing devious. Something sinister grew aflame behind her eyes. 

“I think someone else thinks so too,” the plotting pilot grinned, and Jesse followed her gaze over his shoulder. 

There stood Hanzo, leaning against the wall across the room, muscular arms crossed. The hakama was draped, reminiscent of a waterfall, down from the prosthetic propped against the wall, flowing down to just barely brush the floor. His nails, tapping against his arm, were painted in the same matte blue Lena’s were done in, matching his tattoo quite nicely.

But the thing that made McCree blush the most was the way Hanzo’s half-lidded eyes dragged over his backside and up, unaware that he was also being watched until his stare finally rose enough to lock with the cowboy’s. 

He watched the archer turn, covering his flushed face with a manicured hand, striding briskly towards the alcohol.

Lena giggled again and he turned back to her, face as hot as the day is long. “What… what are you laughing at?” he mumbled, putting all his energy once again into dancing to try and mask his flustered nervousness.

“Just go dance with him,” she bubbled. He turned his face to the side, not meeting her eyes. “Seriously, he’s like, too bashful to make a first move. You’re gonna have to step up your game.”

“What… game?” he rumbled, still embarrassed. “He doesn’t even like me. He’s only staying out of necessity, y’know. Hard men like that don’t feel for people the way people feel for them.”

“People feel, or you feel?” Lena questioned, raising an eyebrow, swaying to the music. “Suck it up and ask him to dance.”

The only reply she got was a small “nooooo”, Jesse’s eyes still averted. 

As they were dancing, then, something changed within Lena. She let her gaze drop to the floor, curved, smiling lips flattening into a hard line. Her grip on his hands hardened. 

“You know,” she said, ever so softly, “I used to think you were scary.”

“Yeah,” Jesse almost growled. “I know. But… what made ya change?”

The pilot laughed then, as if remembering something not exactly fondly. “Hanzo did. Talked some sense into me. He cares for you,” she finished. “You’re not scary, you big wuss. Go talk to him.”

One hearty punch on the arm and a wishing of good luck later, he was on his way. 

Trying to find the elusive archer proved to be a difficult task in the large swarm of dancing people, but he eventually spotted his striking silhouette near the larger spotlights, holding a cup of some alcoholic drink with his back to him.

Jesse tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned almost immediately, tensing. The survival instincts had never left him, but he relaxed when he processed that it was only the cowboy. 

“Hello, McCree,” he greeted him, sipping at his drink.

The cowboy frowned, hands on his hips. “No ‘Jesse’?”

“My apologies. This week has not been the… easiest to deal with.”

“I think I know how that feels,” Jesse confessed, chuckling as he thought back to the past few days since the kiss, the avoidance and the confusion he had gone through. He hadn’t known how to feel, hadn’t known how to react, however simple the catalyst. And here was he, the object of his adoration, flashing reflections of the purple and blue lights swimming in his eyes, staring up at him.

“Jesse? What’s wrong?” Hanzo started, squinting.

The werewolf’s gaze softened, sighing contentedly as he leaned up against the wall, regarding the man. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

…

Idle chitchat could only last them so long. Both knew it was coming, the inevitable end to the evening. The music had gradually started slowing down, quieting, as if it knew as well that the night was winding down. Jive dance devolved into languid swaying and excessive snacking as people filtered through the crowd towards the food table. 

By the time Hanzo saw Lucio pick the microphone up off its stand, his heart was already beating faster than it should have. By the time he heard the musician announce the beginning of the slow songs, his palms were sweaty and he was considering dying on the spot.

Slow, tender piano played across the speakers, the only sound in the room as people began dancing together. Lucio dashed to the edge of the “stage”, mouthing ‘ _for you, Eastwood_ at the couple. Jesse nodded, smiled as if he recognized the song, and then turned back to Hanzo.

He held out a hand, a peace offering. The nervousness in his shaky smile was mirrored in his eyes, worsening every second that passed with no movement on the archer’s part to take it.

Slipping his own hand into the cowboy’s, he stepped into the dance.

They began swaying, Hanzo hyperaware of Jesse’s rough hands on his waist, his own looped around the other man’s neck. 

_Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?  
You been out ridin' fences for so long now_

Jesse’s thumbs rubbed circles into his hips subconsciously, and he leaned into the soft touch, fingers twitching on the back of his neck, playing with the tiny hairs trailing down it.

_Oh, you're a hard one  
I know that you got your reasons_

The crowd parted for them as they made their way slowly out of the corner, and, mistaking their fear and exclusion for recognition of a loving couple, the new recruits moved too, creating a circle of people around Jesse and Hanzo. Somebody whistled.

_These things that are pleasin' you  
Can hurt you somehow_

Hanzo could feel their stare on them, but he didn’t care. He just swayed along, too chicken to look Jesse in the eyes until the man’s hand trailed from his hip, drawing a path up his side, over his shoulder, all the way to his cheek, where it stayed, thumb tracing circles over his jaw.

_Don't you draw the queen of diamonds, boy  
She'll beat you if she's able  
You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet_

The soft smile that had settled across the cowboy’s face was mesmerizing, the most genuine thing he’d seen the man do since he’d been recruited. Hanzo stilled his shaky hands.

_Now it seems to me, some fine things  
Have been laid upon your table  
But you only want the ones that you can't get_

The crowd merged back around them gradually, and he was grateful for it. It was a miracle that they were allowed this small privacy, melting back in with everyone else, but still in a world all their own.

_Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger  
Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home  
And freedom, oh freedom, well, that's just some people talkin'  
Your prison is walking through this world all alone_

Hanzo didn’t know when it happened, but somehow they found themselves closer, chests touching. The position should have made it harder to dance, should have made making the right steps more difficult, but they didn’t so much as trip. The couple moved as gracefully as a pair of swans, slow, languid.

_Don't your feet get cold in the winter time?  
The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine  
It's hard to tell the night time from the day  
You're losin' all your highs and lows  
Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?_

And here, in the middle of the dance floor, shrouded in the soft glow of the fairy lights, Hanzo’s mind carried him back to the day he met Jesse. He was so rough around the edges, so withdrawn that he would have laughed if he could’ve seen the contented look on his face now.

_Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?  
Come down from your fences, open the gate_

They subconsciously leaned closer, heads bowed, foreheads touching. Breathing in the scent of pine emanating off of Jesse, Hanzo’s fingers ghosted over his jawline, drawing a sigh from him, as if he was at peace.

_It may be rainin', but there's a rainbow above you  
You better let somebody love you, let somebody love you  
You better let somebody love you before it's too late._

As the last stretch of the melody echoed and brought forth the chatter of the attendees, Hanzo suddenly awakened from the trace he had been in. McCree had that same happy smile that reached his eyes, even as he took his hands off of Hanzo to let him separate himself from the werewolf. 

Confusion flooded his mind, making rational thinking nearly impossible. He held up his hands, watching them shake, but it just wasn’t processing. He needed to get out of here.

Hanzo took a step back, ignoring the concern written across Jesse’s face as he reached out to stop the fleeing man, to no avail. 

“I’m sorry, I-” the archer offered halfheartedly, blood rushing in his ears. “I can’t-” He turned on his heel and all but ran out, leaving Jesse standing, perplexed and worried, in the middle of a quickly converging crowd. 

…

Jesse ran after him, and even though his breathing grew heavy and the new pain in his side became more and more urgent, he didn’t stop until he heard the light footfalls ahead of him stop as well.

He rounded the final corner in the hallway, finding Hanzo desperately trying to unlock his door, the shaking key slipping off the metal knob with a horrific screech. Hanzo’s breath rasped irregularly, and he kept stopping to tuck stray hairs behind his ear every once in a while.

“Hanzo,” the cowboy started, taking a step towards him. The man in question stiffened at the sound of his voice, whipping his head around to watch him. “What’s goin’ on?”

Still struggling with the door, Hanzo stuttered, “I- I can’t, I’ve made a mistake-”, cutting himself off before he got too far, a hand over his mouth.

Something nasty weighed down on Jesse. He knew this would happen, knew the man would see him for what he was eventually: a monster. He was too dangerous to be around; everyone knew it. Everyone who got close to him was hurt…

“Jesse, no,” the archer seethed, ending his battle with the door’s lock, and he didn’t realize he’d been talking out loud. “This is because of me, I am- not fit, for you-”

“Don’t you say that,” the werewolf interrupted, stepping into his space. He took Hanzo’s shaking hands in his own, steadying them, the two smaller ones sandwiched between his large palms. “You’re the only one that’s let me… feel what it is, to be home,” he finished, voice so soft he wasn’t even sure he’d spoken. His eyes watched only the floor.

“I just- I need to know how you feel about me.”

A hand slipped out of his, and he felt it reach up to press the back of his neck, tilting his head down.

“What-”

“Shut up,” whispered a mouth against his lips, each breath he felt upon them stirring something instinctual in him.

Velvety-soft lips pressed against his, the hand on his neck urging him deeper into the kiss, Jesse’s hands finding their way to Hanzo’s sides, and Hanzo’s, to his face.

Neither knew how many minutes had passed, but judging by the way they managed to tear themselves away from each other and immediately start gasping for air, it was a lot. 

McCree started laughing. He couldn’t help it. Warm, bubbly, low giggles escaped from his throat, even as he tried to cover them.

Apparently, it was infectious, because soon after, Hanzo started laughing too, covering his mouth with a hand and using the other to wipe what may or may not have been happy-tears from his eyes.

And they were, that is. 

Happy.


	27. Deadeye

“Why would you think I wouldn’t want you?”

The quiet question came right as Hanzo was nearing the steep drop into slumber, but he reached forward to take McCree’s hand in his own anyway. 

“It is not important,” he whispered into the cowboy’s neck, breathing in the deep scent of pine and smoke.

This did not sate him. “The hell it isn’t. Don’t lie to me,” Jesse pushed him back softly and shifted under the covers, so that he could meet Hanzo’s eyes. The archer blinked sleepily, pushing himself up and leaning against the headboard with a sigh. Jesse did the same.

It took Hanzo a good few moments before he was ready to speak, but the other man in his bed let him have his time, squeezing his hand reassuringly. When he did talk, it was slow, as if he didn’t want to say anything at all.

“When I was younger, I- I did something despicable. It is… not something that can be forgiven.” He took a shuddery breath. “I do not wish to say more than that.”

A metal hand tilted his chin up gently, and he locked eyes with Jesse, still as could be. The werewolf’s lips parted, words dying before they could be said. Something unrecognizable flashed in his gaze.

A metal fingertip traced up his cheek, tucking a strand of inky black hair behind his ear. “Hanzo… I’ve killed more innocent people than I can count on both hands. I’ve protected trade routes for illegally trafficked weapons. Hell, I’ve probably helped start a few wars in the process. I’ve torn human beings to _shreds_.”

He seemed to darken a little as he spoke of the last one, eyes hooded, smile torn from his face and replaced with the blankness of too many weary years.

“I think,” Jesse continued, planting a kiss on Hanzo’s forehead, “Whatever you’ve done, I can measure up to it.”

The archer’s tired sigh was near immediately silenced by the press of soft lips against his own, and they sunk back down into the bed, whispering little nothings and stealing kisses while the other was distracted. Hanzo’s calloused hands ran through the other’s hair, rolling the coarse strands between the pads of his fingers absentmindedly as he rambled.

“...’course, you know, when you’ve just fallen out of a building into an open field, there ain’t much place t’hide from a sniper, so I…”

The man trailed off just as soon as he had started, watching Hanzo with those deep chocolate eyes he’d never realized he’d wanted to get lost in.

 _God, that was corny,_ Hanzo thought, straining to keep himself from physically cringing at his own internal monologue.

“...What?” Hanzo quietly questioned, drawing the hand in the cowboy’s hair down his cheek and to his jaw, smoothing his stray beard hairs down.

“Dunno how I got so lucky,” Jesse smiled, shifting his hands from Hanzo’s hips to his shoulders, slowly, pulling them closer inch-by-inch on the bed so that he could rest their foreheads together.

Hanzo took it further, leaning up to take a deep breath and press his lips against Jesse’s, humming happily against them. Just as the first kiss and every single one after that had sent a jolt up their spines, this one did as well. 

But this one was different: it was evident from the moment they started to grab at their clothing, pulling each other closer and closer until they were flush, hands fisted in each other’s hair, knuckles white. Hanzo’s fingers brushed over the tip of the werewolf’s pointy ears, flicking like a cat’s at the touch.

The tip of Jesse’s tongue ran over Hanzo’s bottom lip, quick but effective, as he deepened the kiss immediately, parting his lips. Their teeth clacked together and the archer giggled against his cowboy’s mouth. Fangs grazed his bottom lip, tugging gently, tiny sharp tips pressed into it.

“Damn,” the corners of Jesse’s mouth ticked up, lips barely moving as he uttered the word. Hanzo felt the rough shift of his arms as they curled around his waist, and the archer buried his face in his neck, warmth of his skin lulling him to sleep.

…

The violent shift of the bed woke him.

Hanzo blearily blinked the sleep out of his eyes, yawning. While his body was still waking up, his mind was active and sharp. Years of being on the run had done that to him, but it was slowly happening less and less.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, aching from the still-attached prosthetics. As soon as they hit the ground he was over at Jesse, close to but not touching the shuddering man, whose shaking hands grasped the doorknob, stilled in their path by the other man’s presence.

He tried to explain it to the half-stoic face of the archer, worry shining through the mask like sunlight through a canopy. 

“I- I can’t stay, I can’t hurt you-”

“Just breathe,” Hanzo whispered as his eyes watched the hands come off of the doorknob and start clenching and unclenching. He reached down, holding his own out. “Can you squeeze my hand?”

As soon as Jesse’s fingers twitched, as if he wanted to take the hand, he pulled back. “You don’t understand I need to go we can’t do this-” He backed up, hitting the wall with a thud, sinking down to the floor. His hands came up to his face, hiding it along with the stray strands of hair framing his head. Jesse’s voice wilted, as shivery as his body was.

Hanzo slid down the wall next to him, still watching his face, silent. 

It took an hour for him to calm. Hanzo watched him still, gaze flickering over the broad shoulders of the man, tension leaving them as he slumped against the wall, exhausted. His breathing quieted, hands, still shaking, lowering from his face.

The back of Jesse’s head hit the wall with a dull _thunk_ as a sigh escaped him. 

“I can’t,” he tried, breath still shuddering. “I can’t do… this.”

Despite trying his best to keep himself calm for McCree, Hanzo’s heart dropped. The sensation surprised him, as he’d not felt it (tied to love, at least) for many years.

“And why is that?”

The werewolf paused, fist clenching and unclenching. “I can feel it. You’re gonna get hurt. Real hurt, by my hand or otherwise- I… I can’t let that happen. I can’t let you get hurt, or worse.”

Fear-sharpened eyes met his as he slowly reached to take his flesh hand. Hanzo’s voice was soft, reserved.

“Jesse. I will not try to tell you that neither you nor I will be harmed in the coming months… years, or that we will not be killed in combat.”

A sigh, and a sob.

“But what I will tell you is that I am willing to take the chance.” Hanzo lifted Jesse’s trembling flesh hand to his lips, whispering against their entwined fingers.”If these are to be my last days alive, I do not wish to spend them worrying over what-ifs.”

And that was where the lonely night found them, sitting with their backs against the wall in a dark room, a tender, tired kiss the only fleeting glimpse at peace either would know for the hours to come.

…

A sharp rap at the door pierced the blissful fog of sleep surrounding McCree, and he groaned, sitting up reluctantly. The bed creaked and he watched with lidded eyes as Hanzo, curled in on himself, grumbled sleepily and nested himself further into the blanket. _It’d be cruel to wake him,_ filtered through his sleep-addled mind.

Jesse slid out from under the covers, not bothering to reattach his arm before lumbering across the room to unlock and open the door. He must have been a sight to behold: only in checkered boxers and the ratty t-shirt he had slept in, hair mussed up and sticking this way and that in the typical bedhead fashion, facial muscles sagging and eyes slowly blinking as he struggled to wake himself up.

His appearance, however, was not the reason Lena’s eyes widened and she clasped a hand over her mouth. “Jesse, what are you doing in Hanzo’s… _oh my god. Oh my GOD_ -”

“SHH! Hush,” Jesse now urged, fully awake. “Nothin’ happened.”

“Sure, Jesse. Is that your indent in the bed over there?” She pushed the door wider open, leaning in to get a better look. Suddenly, she gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. “Adorable.”

Jesse followed her gaze over his shoulder at the sleeping man, who had somehow burritoed himself in the blanket and was groaning at the hallway light Lena had let into the room.

“Light… off… Jesse,” he mumbled, pulling the end of the blanket over his head. 

The cowboy turned back to Lena, ushering her out of the room. “We’ll be out in a minute, see ya then-”, closing the door in her face and locking it, face burning. He kneeled on the bed, peeling the blanket away from the half-asleep man. “Wakey wakey, eggs n’ bakey,” he whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to Hanzo’s forehead despite his protesting. 

“What… the hell does that even mean…” he heard behind his back, chuckling as he dressed himself in work-appropriate clothing. Hanzo rose to do the same.

…

Turns out a last-minute mission had come up. Lena had gone to Hanzo’s room to rouse him, but ended up at the cafeteria with a bonus agent. The killer look Hanzo had sent her as they stepped through the doors was enough to keep her mouth shut about it, though she kept sending them glances as the recruiter spoke to the large group gathered there.

“-so I need five agents that aren’t- ahem- _hungover_ from last night, and jesus christ if you volunteer-” the recruiter turned a pointed look at one of the other agents, who shrugged and laughed “-We all know your alcohol tolerance is shit. 

“Got contacted last minute by the Shambali. They want secure passage for their monks through a little town just outside King’s Row, near Cambridge. It should be a pretty chill mission, and they’re offering good pay. More importantly, they somehow know we still exist.

“So, we’re gonna want to comply, hence the short notice. Anyone want to go?”

A general murmur befell the crowd, none wanting to volunteer but knowing someone would have to eventually, all shying away from answering the impatient recruiter.

She shook her head in mock disappointment. “Tsk, tsk. Looks like I have to choose my own team, then.”

“You, you-” she pointed, and Hanzo noticed she was picking the stealthiest agents of the crowd. “You-” she aimed a finger at Hanzo “-and you.” and McCree.

They shot each other a glance, each glad to be able to keep an eye on the other during the mission, even though it was just an escort one and probably not that dangerous.

“Alright, let’s go,” the voice of the recruiter cut in as the chosen group peeled themselves away from the crowd and towards the door.

…

Two hours later and the carrier had touched down in a field in the middle of nowhere, it would seem. The sky was mostly dark, little pink edges seeping from the horizon into the sky. _Heh,_ Hanzo thought. _It seems my internal clock has been very, very wrong._

The shadows of the early-morning forest covered them quite well as they made their way through the underbrush. The woods were silent for the most part, save for the rustling of leaves and the chirping of crickets in the distance. Shiny leaves glistened reflections of the pink horizon, bathing the dark scene bloodred. 

 

Silently signalling for the group to stop, the recruiter continued on alone. Five minutes passed, and she returned, motioning them forward again.

Just past the trees was a brick alleyway behind a row of small houses, dark as the night as it was shrouded in the shadow of the connected buildings.

They poured into the alleyway, a strange disconnect between the feeling of being jostled and pushed up against other people, and the utter lack of sound they made. A warm, broad hand brushed against his and Hanzo looked up to meet the barely-visible eyes of Jesse, who nodded warmly at him before taking off towards another alleyway across a street.

Hanzo skittered off into the darkness, tapping blindly through the alleyway for a bit before stopping at the building he’d been assigned to during the airship ride. He dug his fingers into the uneven stone wall, hefting himself up it faster than should be humanly possible… but then again, the prosthetics did help.

Tiny specks of debris rained down from the junctions of the stones as he gripped them, pulling himself up into a broken window, tenderly avoiding the shards of glass still framing the empty space. Tumbling into the dark room, he took a quick gauge of his surroundings before moving to the window facing the street. This one was not broken, merely cracked. 

Peering into the night outside the window, Hanzo watched for any movement. Finding none, he slipped his fingers under the pane and shoved it up, ducking out of the way to avoid any fire if he had happened to be watched. No one did fire, though, so he unslung his bow from his back and nocked an arrow, waiting.

Sunrise came soon enough, lost as he was in his thoughts. His comm beeped and he readied himself.

 _”Iris coming in hot. Do you have a visual?”_ the rough voice growled, and a plethora of others answered it. Hanzo replied with a gruff “Visual obtained” as soon as the entourage appeared in the street, which was slowly filling as people came to see the famous spiritual leaders.

Peering just through the corner of the window, he held his bow at the ready, muscles tensed. Montatta and his crew of monks filtered their way through the cobblestone street, waving good-naturedly at the eager surge of people around them.

His fingers relaxed on the bow as Mondatta turned a corner, no longer visible to him. The monk was the other agents’ problem now. He raised a finger to his comm, about to press the button when something caught his eye.

Hanzo’s finger paused millimeters away from his ear as he peered upwards. Barely visible in the still-low light, a black shape against the faded sky, a figure stood.

Still as stone, its features were indiscernible from the rest of its body, silhouetted as it was against its lighter backdrop. It almost didn’t look like a person at all, camouflaged among the air conditioning units and pipes adorning the top of the building it perched on. 

As far as Hanzo knew, he was the only one positioned on this road. All the other agents were spread out on Mondatta’s lengthy route.

The archer hesitated for just a moment longer, squinting at the figure as he pressed the comm.

“Agent on Hill Street, do you read?”

No answer.

“Agent on Hill Street, do you copy?” he tried again.

Still, no answer.

Hanzo’s grip on his bow tightened, and he pulled it up, slowly, to the window. Nocking an arrow, he drew the string back against his cheek. The bow groaned and creaked as it bent.

“Archer, we need backup, meet at the corner of 5th and Hill, _now!_ ” came the staticky blast in his right ear, causing Hanzo to wince and cup his hand over his comm, prematurely releasing the arrow into the stone building opposite him. When he opened his eyes again, the figure was gone.

A few expletives and an indescribable pang of dread later, he found himself rushing towards the stated location, bobbing through alleyways and dodging crowds. It was an odd feeling he would never get used to: the feeling of knowing he was being watched, and that his stalker could be anywhere and there was nothing he could do about it.

As Hanzo ran, he gave a short report on the lurker, warning the others to watch out for it. None responded, but the sounds of a scuffle crackled through his comm.

Throwing himself over a fence, Hanzo finally reached the scene. It was oddly quiet now, which he knew to mean one thing: ambush.

Before he could think, before he could act, they rushed him.

Gloved hands ripped his bow out of his hands, grabbing onto every available surface, tugging this way, that way- blurry faces and unintelligible voices clouding his mind. Struggle as he might, he could not stop the hands from ripping him off his feet and through a dark doorway.

Hanzo’s metal foot caught on the doorframe and he turned it flush to the outside wall, keeping him from being tugged any further. His attackers pulled harder, but made only a tad bit of headway, the determined archer’s foot slipping and scraping.

Lightning-fast, he pulled his prosthetic off of the doorframe and used both feet to push against the wall, using their momentum against them as he fell back on them like a bowling ball against pins.

In the hazy confusion of the now-grounded party he had knocked down, Hanzo ripped his bow out of one of the black-clad attacker’s hands, nocking one of the arrows that hadn’t fallen out of the quiver and sending it into his chest. 

He raised the bow over his head to act as a club, but it was torn from his grasp by one of the recovered men. He grabbed Hanzo’s hair, forcing his head back to grab his throat, whirl him around, and pin him against the wall.

Hanzo found himself staring into the stone-cold mask of Reaper, or as he now knew him: Reyes.

Reaper tightened his grip around the archer’s throat, ignoring the desperate hands clawing his own and the choked gasps. “Thought you could get away, didn’t you, boy?” he rasped, metal claws digging little pinpricks into his pale skin. 

The sleek metal shine of a shotgun made Hanzo struggle even harder against the wall as Reaper lifted it slowly, torturously against the silky fabric clothing his chest, right to his heart.

The mask bobbed as he chuckled, shifting the metal claws on the gun with soft _tink_ s where the surfaces met. Hanzo let his eyes close, going limp as he anticipated death.

A shot rang out.

Several, to be exact.

Hanzo slumped to the floor as the grip on his neck loosened, peeling his eyes open. A cloud of black smog was disintegrating rapidly in front of him, shooting off to god knows where to cut his losses.

And through the black smog, through the bodies of the other men, shot, tumbling to the ground: McCree.

Lowering his gun, the werewolf dashed to Hanzo, falling to his knees by the wounded man. Checking him over, he tipped the archer’s chin up, worriedly eyeing the already-forming bruises from Reaper’s claws. 

“Rest of the team’s cleanin’ up Reyes’s mess. Let’s get you to Angela, darlin’.”

And with that, they were gone.


End file.
